ft'liK:-'.;  ■ 'H' 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


CONTAINING 


THE   SEVEN   POOR  TRAVELLERS.       NINE  NEW  STORIES  BY  THE  CIIKISI- 

MAS  FIRE.       HARD   TIMES.       LIZZIE   LEIGH.       THE  MINER'S 

DAUGHTERS.       FORTUNE  WILDRED,   ETC. 


BY  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


("BOZ.") 


WITH  A  PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR,  ENGRAVED  ON  STEEL 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  UNIFORM  EDITION  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


BLEAK  HOUSE. 
PICKWICK  PAPERS. 
OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 
OLIVER  TWIST. 
SKETCHES  BY  "BOZ." 
BARNABY  RUDGE. 
NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 
MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 
DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


INING 

DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES.  Containing- 
The  Seven  Poor  Travellers.  Nine 
New  Stories  by  the  Christmas  Fire. 
Hard  Times.  Lizzie  Leigh.  The  Mi- 
ner's Daughters.  Fortune  Wildred, 
the   Foundling,  etc. 

DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

CHRISTMAS  STORIES,  AND  PICTURES 
FROM  ITALY. 


|3l]ila&clpl)ta: 

T.  B.  PETERSON,  No.  102  CHESTNUT  STREET 


1 


5^77^6 


THE 


SEVEN  POOR   TRAVELLERS. 


^^•^^^■^i^^^f**^ 


THE    FIRST    POOR    TRAVELLER. 


Strictly  speaking,  there  were  only  six 
Poor  Travellers  ;  but,  being  a  Traveller  my- 
self, though  an  idle  one,  and  being  withal 
as  poor  as  I  hope  to  be,  I  brought  the  num- 
ber up  to  seven.  This  word  of  explanation 
is  due  at  once ;  for  what  says  the  inscrip- 
tion over  the  quaint  old  door? 

Richard  Watts,  Esq., 

by  his  Will,  dated  22  Aug.,  1579, 

founded  this  Charity 

for  Six  poor  Travellers, 

who  not  being  Rogues  or  Proctors, 

May  receive  gratis  for  one  Night, 

Lodging,  Entertainment, 

and  Four-pence  each. 

It  was  in  the  ancient  little  city  of  Roches- 
ter, in  Kent,  of  all  the  good  days  in  the 
year  upon  a  Christmas  Eve,  that  I  stood 
reading  this  inscription  over  the  quaint  old 
door  in  question.  1  had  been  wandering 
about  the  neighboring  Cathedral,  and  had 
seen  the  tomb  of  Richard  Watts,  with  the 
effigy  of  worthy  Master  Richard  starting  out 
of  it  like  a  ship's  figure-head ;  and  I  had 
felt  that  I  could  do  no  less,  as  I  gave  the 
V.^rger  his  fee,  than  inquire  the  way  to 
Watts's  Charity.  The  way  being  very  short 
and  very  plain,  I  had  come  prosperously  to 
the  inscription  and  the  quaint  old  door. 

"  Now,"  said  I  to  myself,  as  I  looked  at 
tlie  knocker,  "  I  know  I  am  not  a  Proctor ; 
I  wonder  whether  I  am  a  Rogue  \" 

Upon  the  whole,  though  Conscience  repro- 
duced two  or  three  pretty  faces  which  might 
have  had  smaller  attraction  for  a  moral  Go- 
liath than  they  had  had  for  me,  who  am  but 
a  Tom  Thumb  in  that  way,  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  I  was  not  a  Rogue.  So,  be- 
ginning to  regard  the  establishment  as  in 
Bome  sort  ray  property,  bequeathed  to  me 
and  divers  co-legatees,  share  and  share  alike, 
by  the  Worshipful  Master  Richard  Watts,  I 
stepped  backward  into  the  road  to  survey  my 
inheritance. 


I  found  it  to  be  a  clean  white  house,  ef  a 
staid  and  venerable  air,  with  the  quaint  old 
door  already  three  times  mentioned,  (an 
arched  door,  choice  little  long,  low,  lattice- 
windows,  and  a  roof  of  three  gables.  The 
silent  High  Street  of  Rochester  is  full  of 
gables,  with  old  beams  and  timbers  carved 
into  strange  faces.  It  is  oddly  garnished 
with  a  queer  old  clock,  that  projects  over  the 
pavement  out  of  a  grave  red  brick  building, 
as  if  Time  carried  on  business  there,  and 
hung  out  his  sign.  Sooth  to  say,  he  did  an 
active  stroke  of  work  in  Rochester,  in  the  old 
days  of  the  Romans,  and  the  Saxons,  and  the 
Normans,  and  down  to  the  times  of  King 
John,  when  the  rugged  castle — I  will  not  un- 
dertake to  say  how  many  hundreds  of  years 
old  then— was  abandoned  to  the  centuries  of 
weather  which  have  so  defaced  the  dark  aper- 
tures in  its  walls,  that  the  ruin  looks  as  if 
the  rooks  and  daws  had  picked  its  eyes  out. 

I  was  very  well  pleased  both  with  my  pro- 
perty and  its  situation.  While  I  was  yet 
surveying  it  with  growing  content,  I  espied 
at  one  of  the  upper  lattices  whixjh  stood  open, 
a  decent  body,  of  a  wholesome  matronly  ap- 
pearance, whose  eyes  I  caught  inquiringly 
addressed  to  mine.  They  said  so  plainly, 
"  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  house  ?"  that  I  an- 
swered aloud,  "  Yes,  if  you  please."  And 
within  a  minute  the  old  door  opened,  and  I 
bent  my  head,  and  went  down  two  steps  into 
the  entry. 

"  This,"  said  the  matronly  presence,  usher- 
ing me  into  a  low  room  on  the  right,  "  is 
where  the  travellers  sit  by  the  fire,  and  cook 
what  bits  of  suppers  they  buy  with  their 
four-pences." 

"Oh!  Then  they  have  no  entertainment?" 
said  I.  For,  the  inscription  over  the  outer 
door  was  still  running  in  my  head,  and  I  was 
mentally  repeating  in  a  kind  of  tune,  "  Lodg- 
ing, entertainment,  and  four-pence  each." 

"  They  have  a  fire  provided  for  'em,"  re- 
turned the  matron ;  a  mighty  civil  person, 
not,  as  I  could  make  out,  overpaid ;  "  and 

(3) 


PICK  EX'S   NEW   STORIES. 


these   cooking  utensils.      And  this  what's 

Eainted  on  a  board,  is  the  rules  for  their  be- 
avior.  They  have  their  four-pences  when 
they  get  their  tickets  from  the  steward  over 
the  way — for  I  don't  atimit  'em  myself,  they 
must  get  their  tickets  first — and  sometimes 
one  buys  a  rasher  of  bacon,  and  another  a 
herring,  and  another  a  pound  of  potatoes,  or 
what  not.  Sometimes  two  or  three  of  'em 
will  club  their  four-pences  together,  and 
make  a  supper  that  way.  But  not  much  of 
anything  is  to  be  got  for  four-pence,  at  pre- 
sent, when  provisions  is  so  dear." 

"  True,  indeed,"  I  remarked.  I  had  been 
looking  about  the  room,  admiring  its  snug 
fireside  at  the  upper  end,  its  glimpse  of  the 
street  through  the  low  muUioned  window, 
and  its  beams  overhead.  "It  is  very  com- 
fortable," said  I. 

"  Ill-con wenient,"  observed  the  matronly 
presence. 

I  liked  to  hear  her  say  so  ;  for  it  showed 
a  commendable  anxiety  to  execute,  in  no 
niggardly  spirit,  the  intentions  of  Master 
Richard  Watts.  But  the  room  was  really  so 
well  adapted  to  its  purpose,  that  I  protested 
quite  enthusiastically,  against  her  disparage- 
ment. 

"  Nay,  ma'am,"  said  I,  "  I  am  sure  it  is 
warm  in  winter  and  cool  in  summer.  It  has 
a  look  of  homely  welcome  and  soothing  rest. 
It  has  a  remarkably  cosey  fireside,  the  very 
blink  of  which,  gleaming  out  into  the  street 
upon  a  winter  night,  is  enough  to  warm  all 
Rochester's  heart.  And  as  to  the  convenience 
of  the  six  Poor  Travellers " 

"  I  don't  mean  them,"  returned  the  pre- 
sence. "  I  speak  of  its  being  an  ill-conwe- 
nience  to  myself  and  my  daughter  having 
no  other  room  to  sit  in  of  a  night." 

This  was  true  enough,  but  there  was  an- 
other quaint  room  of  corresponding  dimen- 
sions on  the  opposite  side  of  the  entry :  so, 
I  stepped  across  to  it,  through  the  open 
doors  of  both  rooms,  and  asked  what  this 
chamber  was  for  ? 

"This,"  returned  the  presence,  "is  the 
Board  Room  ;  where  the  gentlemen  meet 
when  they  come  here." 

Let  me  see.  I  had  counted  from  the  street 
six  upper  windows,  besides  these  on  the 
ground  story.  Making  a  perplexed  calcula- 
tion in  my  mind,  I  rejoined,  "  Then  the  six 
Poor  Travellers  sleep  up  stairs  ?" 

My  new  friend  shook  her  head.  "  They 
sleep,"  she  answered,  "  in  two  little  outer 
galleries  at  the  back,  where  their  beds  has 
always  been,  ever  since  the  Charity  was 
founded.  It  being  so  very  ill-conwenient  to 
me  as  things  is  at  present,  the  gentlemen 
are  going  to  take  oflf  a  bit  of  the  back  yard, 
and  make  a  slip  of  a  room  for  'em  there,  to 
sit  in  before  they  go  to  bed." 

"  And  then  the  six  Poor  Travellers,"  said 
I,  "  will  be  entirely  out  of  the  house  ?" 

'*  Entirely  out  of  the  house,"  assented  the 


presence,  comfortably  smoothing  her  hands  ; 
"  which  is  considered  much  better  for  all 
parties,  and  much  more  cmiwonient." 

I  had  been  a  little  startled,  in  the  cathe- 
dral, by  the  emphasis  with  which  the  effigy 
of  Master  Richard  W^atts  was  bursting  out 
of  his  tomb  ;  but  I  began  to  think,  now, 
that  it  might  be  expected  to  come  across  the 
High  Street  some  stormy  night,  and  make  a 
disturbance  here. 

Ilowbeit,  I  kept  my  thoughts  to  myself, 
and  accompanied  the  presence  to  the  little 
galleries  at  the  back.  I  found  them  on  a 
tiny  scale,  like  the  galleries  in  old  inn 
yards  ;  and  they  were  very  clean.  While  I 
was  looking  at  them,  the  matron  gave  me 
to  understand  that  the  prescribed  number 
of  Poor  Travellers  were  forthcoming  every 
night,  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  ;  and 
that  the  beds  were  always  occupied.  My 
questions  upon  this,  and  her  replies,  brought 
us  back  to  the  Board  Room,  so  essential  to 
the  dignity  of  "  the  gentlemen,"  where  she 
showed  me  the  printed  accounts  of  the  Cha- 
rity, hanging  up  by  the  window.  From 
them,  I  gathered  that  the  greater  part  of 
the  property  bequeathed  by  the  Worshipful 
Master  Richard  Watts,  for  the  maintenance 
of  this  foundation,  was,  at  the  period  of  his 
death,  mere  marsh-land  ;  but  that,  in  course 
of  time,  it  had  been  reclaimed  and  built 
upon,  and  was  very  considerably  increased 
in  value.  I  found,  too,  that  about  a  thirti- 
eth part  of  the  annual  revenue  was  now 
expended  on  the  purposes  commemorated  in 
the  inscription  over  the  door  ;  the  rest  being 
handsomely  laid  out  in  Chancery,  law  ex- 
penses, colleetorship,  receivership,  pound- 
age, and  other  appendages  of  management, 
highly  complimentary  to  the  importance  of 
the  six  Poor  Travellers.  In  short,  I  made 
the  not  entirely  new  discovery,  that  it  may 
be  said  of  an  establishment  like  this,  in  dear 
Old  England,  as  of  the  fat  oyster  in  the 
American  story,  that  it  takes  a  good  many 
men  to  swallow  it  whole. 

"And  pray,  ma'am,"  said  I,  sensible  that 
the  blankness  of  my  face  began  to  brighten 
as  a  thought  occurred  to  me,  "could  one 
see  these  Travellers  ?" 

"  Well !"  she  returned  dubiously,  "  no  !" 

"  Not  to-night,  for  instanq£?"  said  I. 

"Well!"  she  returned  more  positively, 
"  no !  Nobody  ever  asked  to  see  them,  and 
nobody  ever  did  see  them." 

As  I  am  not  easily  baulked  in  a  design 
when  I  am  set  upon  it,  I  urged  to  the  good 
lady  that  this  was  Christmas  Eve ;  that 
Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year — which  is 
unhappily  too  true,  for  when  it  begins  to 
stay  with  us  the  whole  year  round,  we  shall 
make  this  earth  a  very  different  place — that 
I  was  possessed  by  the  desire  to  treat  the  Tra- 
vellers to  a  supper  and  a  temperate  glass 
of  hot  Wassail ;  that  the  voice  of  Fame 
had  been  heard  in  the  land,  declaring  my 


THE   SEVEN   POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


ability  to  make  hot  Wassail ;  that  if  I  •were 
permitted  to  hold  the  feast,  I  should  be 
found  conformable  to  reason,  sobriety,  and 
good  hours ;  in  a  word,  that  I  could  be 
merry  and  wise  myself,  and  had  been  even 
known  at  a  pinch  to  keep  others  so,  although 
I  was  decorated  with  no  badge  or  medal, 
and  was  not  a  Brother,  Orator,  Apostle, 
Saint,  or  Prophet  of  any  denomination 
whatever.  In  the  end  I  prevailed,  to  my 
great  joy.  It  was  settled  that  at  nine 
o'clock  that  night,  a  turkey  and  a  piece  of 
roast  beef  should  smoke  upon  the  board  ; 
and  that  I,  faint  and  unworthy  minister  for 
once  of  Master  Richard  AVatts,  should  pre- 
side as  th-i  Christmas-supper  host  of  the  six 
Poor  Travellers. 

I  went  back  to  my  inn,  to  give  the  neces- 
sary directions  for  the  turkey  and  roast 
beef,  and,  during  the  remainder  of  the  day, 
could  settle  to  nothing  for  thinking  of  the 
Poor  Travellers.  When  the  wind  blew  hard 
against  the  windows — it  was  a  cold  day, 
with  dark  gusts  of  sleet  alternating  with 
periods  of  wild  brightness,  as  if  the  year 
were  dying  fitfuUv — I  pictured  them  ad- 
vancing towards  their  resting-place,  along 
variiius  cold  roads,  and  felt  delighted  to 
thitik  how  little  they  foresaw  the  supper 
that  awaited  them.  I  painted  their  por- 
traits in  my  mind,  and  indulged  in  little 
heightening  touches.  I  made  them  foot- 
sore ;  I  made  them  weary ;  I  made  them 
carry  packs  and  bundles  ;  I  made  them  stop 
by  f.-nger- posts  and  mile-stones,  leaning  on 
their  bent  sticks,  and  looking  wistfully  at 
what  was  written  there  ;  I  made  them  lose 
their  way.  and  filled  their  five  wits  with 
apprehensions  of  lying  out  all  night,  and 
being  frozen  to  death.  I  took  up  my  hat 
and  went  out,  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  Old 
Castle,  and  looked  over  the  windy  hills  that 
slope  down  to  the  Medway ;  almost  believ- 
ing that  I  could  descry  some  of  my  Travel- 
lers in  the  distance.  After  it  fell  djirk,  and 
the  Cathedral  bell  was  heard  in  the  invisible 
steeple — quite  a  bower  of  frosty  rime  when 
I  had  last  seen  it — striking  five,  six,  seven, 
I  became  so  full  of  my  Travellers  that  I 
could  eat  no  dinner,  and  felt  constrained  to 
watch  them  still,  in  the  red  coals  of  my  fire. 
They  were  all  arrived  by  this  time,  I 
thought,  had  got  their  tickets,  and  were 
gone  in. — There,  ray  pleasure  was  dashed 
by  the  reflection  that  probably  some  Tra- 
vellers had  come  too  late,  and  were  shut 
out. 

After  the  Cathedral  bell  had  struck  eight, 
I  could  smell  a  delicious  savor  of  turkey  and 
roast  beef,  rising  to  the  window  of  my  ad- 
joining bed-room,  which  looked  down  into 
the  inn  yard,  just  where  the  lights  of  the 
kitchen  reddened  a  massive  fragment  of  the 
Castle  wall.  It  was  high  time  to  make  the 
Wassail  now;  therefore,  I  had  up  the  ma- 
terials, (which,  together  with  their  propor- 


tions and  combinations,  I  must  decline  to 
impart,  as  the  only  secret  of  my  own  I  was 
ever  known  to  keep,)  and  made  a  glorioua 
jorum ;  not  in  a  bowl — for  a  bowl  any- 
where but  on  a  shelf,  is  a  low  superstition, 
fraught  with  cooling  and  slopping — but  ia 
a  brown  earthenware  pitcher,  tenderly  suf- 
focated when  full,  with  a  coarse  cloth.  It 
being  now  upon  the  stroke  of  nine,  I  set  out 
for  Watts's  Charity,  carrying  my  brown 
beauty  in  my  arms.  I  would  trust  Ben  the 
waiter  with  untold  gold ;  but  there  are 
strings  in  the  human  heart  which  must 
never  be  sounded  by  another,  and  drinks 
that  I  make  myself  are  those  strings  in 
mine. 

The  Travellers  were  all  assembled,  the 
cloth  was  laid,  and  Ben  had  brought  a  great 
billet  of  wood,  and  had  laid  it  artfully  on 
the  top  of  the  fire,  so  that  a  touch  or  two  of 
the  poker,  after  supper,  should  make  a 
roaring  blaze.  Having  deposited  my  bro\\  a 
beauty  in  a  red  nook  of  the  hearth,  inside 
the  fender,  where  she  soon  began  to  sing 
like  an  ethereal  cricket,  diffusing  at  the 
same  time,  odors  as  of  ripe  vineyards,  spice 
forests,  and  orange  groves — I  say,  having 
stationed  my  beauty  in  a  place  of  security 
and  improvement,  I  introduced  myself  to 
my  guests  by  shaking  hands  all  round,  and 
giving  them  a  hearty  welcome. 

I  found  the  party  to  be  thus  composed: — 
Firstly,  myself.  Secondly,  a  very  decent 
man,  indeed,  with  his  right  arm  in  a  sling, 
who  had  a  certain  clean,  agreeable  smell  of 
wood  about  him,  from  which  I  judged  him 
to  have  something  to  do  with  shipbuilding. 
Thirdly,  a  little  sailor-boy,  a  mere  cliild, 
with  a  profusion  of  rich  dark-browu  hair, 
and  deep,  womanly-looking  eyes.  Fourthly, 
a  shabby-genteel  personage,  in  a  thread- 
bare black  suit,  and  apparently  in  very 
bad  circumstances,  with  a  dry,  suspicious 
look;  the  absent  buttons  on  his  waist- 
coat eked  out  with  red  tape,  and  a  bundle 
of  extraordinarily  tattered  papers  sticking 
out  of  an  inner  breast-pocket.  Filth ly,  a 
foreigner  by  birth,  but  an  Englishman  in 
speecli,  who  carried  his  pipe  in  the  band  of 
his  hat,  and  lost  no  time  in  telling  me,  ia 
an  easy,  simple,  engaging  way,  tliat  be 
was  a  watchmaker  from  Ueneva,  and  tra- 
velled all  about  the  Continent,  mostly  on 
foot,  working  as  a  journeynuxn,  and  seeing 
new  countries — possibly  (I  thought)  also 
smuggling  a  watch  or  so,  now  and  then. 
Sixthly,  a  little  widow,  who  had  been  very 
pretty,  and  was  still  very  young,  but  whose 
beauty  had  been  wrecked  in  some  great 
misfortune,  and  whose  manner  was  remark- 
ably timid,  scared,  and  solitary.  Seventhly, 
and  lastly,  a  Traveller,  of  a  kind  familiar  to 
mj-  boyhood,  but  now  almost  obsolete  ;  a 
Book-peddler,  who  had  a  quantity  of  pam- 
phlets and  numbers  with  him,  and  who  pre- 
sently boasted  that  he  could  repeat  more 


DICKEXS'  NEW  STORIES. 


versee  in  an  evening  than  he  could  sell  in  a 
twelvemonth. 

All  tlu'so  I  have  mentioned,  in  the  order 
in  which  they  eat  at  table.  I  presided,  and 
the  matronly  presence  laced  me.  We  were 
not  lonj^  in  tjiking  our  places,  for  the  supper 
had  arrived  with  me,  in  the  following  pro- 
cession : — 

Myself  with  the  pitcher. 

Ben  with  Beer. 

Inattentive  Boy  with  I  Inattentive  Boy  with 

hot  plates.  ]  hot  plates. 

THE    TURKEY. 

Female  carrying  sauces  to  be  heated  on  the 
spot. 

THE    BEEF. 

Man   with   Tray  on   his   head,   containing 

Vegetables  and  Sundries. 

Volunteer  Ilostler  from  Hotel,  grinning, 

and  rendering  no  assistance. 

As  we  passed  along  the  High-street,  Comet- 
like, we  left  a  long  tail  of  fragrance  behind 
us,  which  caused  the  public  to  stop,  sniffling 
in  wonder.  We  had  previously  left  at  the 
corner  of  the  inn-yard,  a  wall-eyed  young 
man  connected  with  the  Fly  department,  and 
well  accustomed  to  the  sound  of  a  railway 
whistle,  which  Ben  always  carries  in  his 
pocket ;  whose  instructions  were,  so  soon  as 
he  should  hear  the  whistle  blovrn,  to  dash 
into  the  kitchen,  seize  the  hot  plum-pudding 
and  mince  pies,  and  speed  with  them  to 
Watts's  Charity — where  they  would  be  re- 
ceived (he  was  further  instructed)  by  the 
sauce-female,  who  would  be  provided  with 
brandy  in  a  blue  state  of  combustion. 

All  these  arrangements  were  executed  in 
the  most  exact  and  punctual  manner.  I 
never  saw  a  finer  turkey,  finer  beef,  or  greater 
prodigality  of  sauce  and  gravy  ;  and  my 
Travellers  did  wonderful  justice  to  every- 
thing set  before  them.  It  made  my  heart 
ig'oice,  to  observe  how  their  wind-and-frost 
hardened  faces,  softened  in  the  clatter  of 
plates  and  knives  and  forks,  and  mellowed 
in  the  fire  and  supper  heat.  While  their  hats 
and  caps,  and  wrappers,  hanging  up  ;  a  few 
PHiall  bundles  on  the  ground  in  a  corner; 
and,  in  another  corner,  three  or  four  old 
walking  sticks,  worn  down  at  the  end  to  mere 
fringe  ;  linked  this  snug  interior  with  the 
bleak  outside  in  a  golden  chain. 

When  supper  was  done,  and  my  brown 
beauty  had  been  elevated  on  the  table,  there 
was  a  general  requisition  to  me,  to  "  take  the 
corner  ;"  which  suggested  to  me,  comfortably 
enough,  how  much  my  friends  here  made  of 
a  fire — for  when  had  /  ever  thought  so  highly 
of  the  corner,  since  the  days  when  I  connect- 
ed it  with  Jack  Horner  ?  However,  as  I  de- 
clined, Ben,  whose  touch  on  all  convivial 
instruments  is  perfect,  drew  the  table  apart, 
and  instructing  my  Travellers  to  open  right 


and  left,  on  either  side  ot  me,  and  form  round 
the  fire,  closed  up  the  centre  with  myself  and 
my  chair,  and  preserved  the  order  we  had 
kept  at  table,  lie  had  already,  in  a  tranquil 
manner,  boxed  the  ears  of  the  inattentive  ' 
boys,  until  they  had  been  by  imperceptible 
degrees  boxed  out  of  the  room  ;  and  he  now 
rapidly  skirmished  the  sauce-female  into  the 
High-street,  disappeared,  and  softly  closed 
the  door. 

This  was  the  time  for  bringing  the  poker 
to  bear  on  the  billet  of  wood.  I  tapped  it 
three  times,  like  an  enchanted  talisman,  and 
a  brilliant  host  of  merrymakers  burst  out  of 
it,  and  sported  off  by  the  chimney — rushing 
up  the  middle  in  a  fiery  country  dance,  and 
never  coming  down  again.  Meanwhile,  by 
their  sparkling  light,  which  threw  our  lamp 
into  the  shade,  I  filled  the  glasses,  and  gave 
my  Travellers,  Christmas  ! — Christmas  Eve, 
my  friends,  when  the  Shepherds,  who  were 
Poor  Travellers,  too,  in  their  way,  heard  the 
Angels  sing,  "  On  earth,  peace.  Good-will, 
towards  men !" 

I  don't  know  who  was  the  first  among  us 
to  think  that  we  ought  to  take  hands  as  we 
sat,  in  deference  to  the  toast,  or  whether  any 
one  of  us  anticipated  the  others,  but  at  any 
rate  we  all  did  it.  We  then  drank  to  the 
memory  of  the  good  Master  Richard  Watts. 
And  I  wish  his  ghost  may  never  have  had 
any  worse  usage  under  that  roof,  than  it  had 
from  us ! 

It  was  the  witching  time  for  story-telling. 
"  Our  whole  life.  Travellers,"  said  I,  "  is  a 
story  more  or  less  intelligible — generally 
less;  but  we  shall  read  it  by  a  clearer  light 
when  it  is  ended.  I,  for  one,  am  so  divided 
this  night  between  fact  and  fiction,  that  I 
scarce  know  which  is  which.  Shall  we  be- 
guile the  time  by  telling  stories,  in  our  order 
as  we  sit  here  V 

They  all  answered,  yes,  provided  I  would 
begin.  I  had  little  to  tell  them,  but  I  was 
bound  by  my  own  proposal.  Therefore,  after 
looking  for  a  while  at  the  spiral  column  of 
smoke  wreathing  up  from  my  brown  beauty, 
through  which  I  could  have  almost  sworn  I 
saw  the  efi&gy  of  Master  Richard  Watts  less 
startled  than  usual ;  I  fired  away. 

In  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  ninety-nine,  a  relative  of  mine  came 
limping  down,  on  foot,  to  this  town  of  Chat- 
ham. I  call  it  this  town,  because  if  anybody 
present  knows  to  a  nicety  where  Rochester 
ends  and  Chatham  begins,  it  is  more  than  I 
do.  He  was  a  poor  traveller,  with  not  a 
ferthing  in  his  pocket.  He  sat  by  the  fire  in 
this  very  room,  and  he  slept  one  night  in  o 
bed  that  will  be  occupied  to-night  by  some 
one  here. 

My  relative  came  down  to  Chatham,  to  en- 
list in  a  cavalry  regiment,  if  a  cavalry  regi- 
ment would  have  him ;  if  not,  to  take  King 
George's  shilling  from  any  corporal  or  ser- 


THE   SEVEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


geant,  who  would  put  a  bunch  of  ribbons  in 
his  hat.     His  object  was  to  get  shot ;  but  he 

-  thought  he  might  as  well  ride  to  death  as  be 
at  the  trouble  of  walking. 

My  relative's  Christian  name  was  Richard, 
but  he  was  better  known  as  Dick.  lie  drop- 
ped his  own  surname  on  the  road  down,  and 
took  up  that  of  Doubledick.  He  was  passed 
as  Richard  Doubledick ;  age  twenty-two  ; 
height,  live  foot  ten  ;  native  place,  Exmouth  ; 
which  he  had  never  been  near  in  his  life. — 

-  There  was  no  cavalry  in  Chatham,  when  he 
limped  over  the  bridge  here,  with  half  a  shoe 
to  bis  dusty  foot,  so  he  enlisted  into  a  regi- 
ment of  the  line,  and  was  glad  to  get  drunk 

'  and  forget  all  about  it. 

You  are  to  know  that  this  relative  of  mine 
had  gone  wrong  and  run  wild.  His  heart  was 
in  the  right  place,  but  it  was  sealed  up.  He 
had  been  betrothed  to  a  good  and  beautiful 
girl  whom  he  had  loved  better  than  she — or 
perhaps  even  he — believed  ;  but  in  an  evil 
hour,  he  had  given  her  cause  to  say  to  him, 
solemnly,  "  Richard,  I  will  never  marry  any 
other  man.  I  will  live  single  for  your  sake, 
but  Mary  Marshall's  lips  ;" — her  name  was 
Mary  Marshall ; — "  never  address  another 
word  to  you  on  earth.  Go,  Richard ! 
Heaven  forgive  you  I"  This  finished  him. 
This  brought  him  down  to  Chatham.  This 
made  him  private  Richard  Doubledick,  with 
a  deep  determination  to  be  shot. 

There  was  not  a  more  dissipated  and  reck- 
less soldier  in  Chatham  barracks,  in  the  year 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety-nine, 
tlian  Private  Richard  Doubledick.  He  asso- 
ciated with  the  dregs  of  every  regiment,  he 
was  as  seldom  sober  as  he  could  be,  and  was 
constantly  under  punishment.  It  became 
clear  to  the  whole  barracks,  that  Private 
Richard  Doubledick  would  very  soon  be 
flogged. 

Now  the  Captain  of  Richard  Doubledick's 
'  company  was  a  young  gentleman  not  above 
five  years  his  senior,  whose  eyes  had  an  ex- 
pression in  them  which  afl'ected  Private 
Richard  Doubledick  in  a  very  remarkable 
/'  way.  They  were  bright,  handsome,  dark 
r  eyes — what  are  called  laughing  eyes  gene- 
rally and,  when  serious,  rather  steady  than 
severe — but,  they  were  the  only  eyes  now 
left  in  bis  narrowed  world  that  Private 
Richard  Doubledick  could  not  stand.  Un- 
abashed by  evil  report  and  punishment, 
defiant  of  everything  else  and  everybody 
else,  he  had  but  to  know  that  those  eyes 
looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  he  felt 
ashamed.  He  could  not  so  much  as  salute 
Captain  Taunton  in  the  street,  like  any  other 
officer.  He  was  reproached  and  confused — 
troubled  by  the  mere  possibility  of  the  cap- 
tain's looking  at  him.  In  his  worst  moments 
he  would  rather  turn  back  and  go  any  dis- 
tance out  of  his  way,  than  encounter  those 
two  handsome,  dark,  bright  eyes. 

One  day,  when  Private  Richard  Double- 


dick came  out  of  the  Black  hole,  where  he 
had  been  passing  the  last  eight-and-forty 
hours,  and  in  which  retreat  he  spent  a  good 
deal  of  his  time,  he  was  ordered  to  betake 
himself  to  Captain  Taunton's  quarters.  In 
the  stale  and  squalid  state  of  a  man  just  out 
of  the  Black  hole,  he  had  less  fancy  than 
ever  for  being  seen  by  the  Captain  ;  but  he 
was  not  so  mad  yet  as  to  disobey  orders, 
and  consequently  went  up  to  the  terrace 
overlooking  the  parade-ground,  where  the 
officers'  quarters  were  :  twisting  and  break- 
ing in  his  hands  as  he  went  along,  a  bit  of 
the  straw  that  had  formed  the  decorative 
furniture  of  the  Black  hole. 

"  Come  in  !"  cried  the  Captain,  when  he 
knocked  with  his  knuckles  at  the  door. 
Private  Richard  Doubledick  pulled  off  his 
cap,  took  a  stride  forward,  and  felt  very 
conscious  that  he  stood  in  the  light  of  the 
dark  bright  eyes. 

There  was  a  silent  pause.  Private  Richard 
Doubledick  had  put  the  straw  in  his  mouth, 
and  was  gradually  doubling  it  up  into  his 
windpipe  and  choking  himself. 

"Doubledick,"  said  the  Captain,  "Do  you 
know  where  you  are  going  to  ?" 

"  To  the  Devil,  sir  !"  faltered  Doubledick. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  Captain.  "And  very 
fast." 

Private  Richard/Doubledick  turned  the 
straw  of  the  Blajek  hole  in  his  mouth,  and 
made  a  miserable  •galute  of  acquiescence. 

"  Doubledjick,"  s^id  the  Captain,  "  since  I 
entered  his  Majesty's  service,  a  boy  of  seven- 
teen, I  have  been  pained  to  see  many  men 
of  promise  going  that  road  ;  but  I  have  never 
been  so  pained  to  see  a  man  determined  to 
make  the  shameful  journey,  as  I  have  been, 
ever  since  you  joined  the  regiment,  to  see 
you." 

Private  Richard  Doubledick  began  to  find 
a  film  stealing  over  the  floor  at  which  he 
looked  ;  also  to  find  the  legs  of  the  Captain's 
breakfast-table  turning  crooked,  as  if  he 
saw  them  through  water. 

"I  am  only  a  common  soldier,  sir,"  said 
he.  "  It  signifies  very  little  what  such  a 
poor  brute  comes  to." 

"  You  are  a  man,"  returned  the  Captain 
with  grave  indignation,  "  of  education  and 
superior  advantages ;  and  if  you  say  that, 
meaning  what  you  say,  you  have  sunk  lower 
than  I  had  believed.  How  low  that  must 
be,  I  leave  you  to  consider:  knowing  what  I 
know  of  your  disgrace,  and  seeing  what  I 
see." 

"  I  hope  to  get  shot  soon,  sir,"  said  Private 
Richard  Doubledick  ;  "  and  then  the  regi- 
ment, and  the  world  together,  will  be  rid  of 
me." 

The  legs  of  the  table  were  becoming  very 
crooked.  Doubledick,  looking  up  to  steady 
his  vision,  met  the  eyes  that  had  so  strong 
an  influence  over  him.  He  put  his  hand 
before  his  own  eyes,  and  the  breast  of  his 


8 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


disgrace-jacket  swelled  as  if  it  would  fly 
asunder. 

''  "I  would  rather,"  said  the  young  Cap- 
tain, "  see  this  in  you,  Doubledick,  than  I 
would  see  five  thousand  guineas  counted  out 
upon  this  table  for  a  gift  to  my  good  mother. 
Have  you  a  mother  ?" 

"  I  am  thankful  to  say  she  is  dead,  sir." 

"  If  your  praise,"  returned  the  Captain, 
"  were  sounded  from  mouth  to  mouth 
through  the  whole  regiment,  through  the 
whole  army,  through  the  whole  country, 
you  would  wish  she  had  lived,  to  say  with 
pride  and  joy,  '  lie  is  my  son !'  " 

"  Sparc  me,  sir  ;"  said  Doubledick.  "  She 
would  never  have  heard  any  good  of  me. 
She  would  never  have  had  any  pride  and  joy 
in  owning  herself  my  mother.  Love  and 
compassion  she  might  have  had,  and  would 

have  always  had,  I  know  ;  but  not Spare 

me,  sir !  I  am  a  broken  wretch,  quite  at 
your  mercy  !"  And  he  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall,  and  stretched  out  his  imploring 
hand. 

"  My  friend "  began  the  captain. 

"  God  bless  you,  sir !"  sobbed  Private 
Eichard  Doubledick. 

'  You  are  at  the  crisis  of  your  fate.  Hold 
your  course  unchanged,  a  little  longer,  and 
you  know  what  must  happen,  /know  even 
better  than  you  can  imagine,  that  after  that 
has  happened,  you  are  lost.  No  man  who 
could  shed  those  tears,  could  bear  those 
marks." 

"  I  fully  believe  it,  sir,"  in  a  low,  shiver- 
ing voice,  said  Private  Richard  Doubledick. 

"  ^1  a  man  in  any  station  can  do  his 
duty,^'  said  the  young  Captain,  "  and,  in 
doing  it,  can  earn  his  own  respect,  even  if 
his  case  should  be  so  very  unfortunate  and 
80  very  rare,  that  he  can  earn  no  other  man's. 
A  common  soldier,  poor  brute  though  you 
called  him  just  now,  has  this  advantage  in 
the  stormy  times  we  live  in,  that  he  always 
does  his  duty  before  a  host  of  sympathising 
witnesses.  Do  you  doubt  that  he  may  so  do 
it  as  to  be  extolled  through  a  whole  regi- 
ment, through  a  whole  army,  through  a 
;  whole  country  ?  Turn  while  you  may  yet 
retrieve  the  past,  and  try." 

"  I  will !  I  ask  for  only  one  witness,  sir," 
cried  Richard,  with  a  bursting  heart. 

"  I  understand  you.  I  will  be  a  watchful- 
and  a  faithful  one." 

I  have  heard  from  Private  Rishard  Double- 
dick's  own  lips,  that  he  dropped  down  upon 
his  knee,  kissed  that  officer's  hand,  arose, 
and  went  out  of  the  light  of  the  dark  bright 
_eyes,  an  altered  man. 

In  that  year,  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  ninety-nine,  the  French  were  in  Egypt, 
in  Italy,  in  Germany,  where  not  ?  Napoleon 
Buonaparte  had  likewise  begun  to  stir  against 
us  in  India,  and  most  men  could  read  the 
signs  of  the  great  troubles  that  were  coming 
on.    In  the  very  next  year,  when  we  formed 


an  alliance  with  Austria  against  him,  Cay^ 
tain  Taunton's  regiment  was  on  service  in 
India.  And  there  was  not  a  finer  non-com- 
missioned officer  in  it — no,  nor  in  the  whole 
line — than  Corporal  Richard  Doubledick. 

In  eighteen  hundred  and  one,  the  Indian 
army  were  on  the  coast  of  Egypt.  Next 
year  was  the  year  of  the  proclamation  of  the 
short  peace,  and  they  were  recalled.  It  had 
then  become  well  known  to  thousands  of 
men,  that  wherever  Captain  Taunton,  with 
the  dark  bright  eyes,  led,  there,  close  to  him, 
ever  at  his  side,  firm  as  a  rock,  true  as  the 
sun,  and  brave  as  Mars,  would  be  certain  to 
be  found,  while  life  beat  in  their  hearts, 
that  famous  soldier,  Sergeant  Richard 
Doubledick. 

Eighteen  hundred  and  five,  besides  being 
the  great  year  of  Trafalgar,  was  a  year  of 
hard  fighting  in  India.  That  year  saw  such 
wonders  done  by  a  Sergeant-Major,  who  cut 
his  way  single-handed  through  a  solid  mass 
of  men,  recovered  the  colors  of  his  regiment 
which  had  been  seized  from  the  hand  of  a 
poor  boy  shot  through  the  heart,  and  rescued 
his  wounded  captain,  who  was  down,  and  in 
a  very  jungle  of  horses'  hoofs  and  sabres — 
saw  such  wonders  done,- 1  say,  by  this  brave 
Sergeant-Major,  that  he  was  especially  made 
the  bearer  of  the  colors  he  had  worn  ;  and 
Ensign  Richard  Doubledick  had  risen  from 
the  ranks. 

Sorely  cut  up  in  every  battle,  but  aMaya 
reinforced  by  the  bravest  of  men — for,  the 
fame  of  following  the  old  colours,  shot 
through  and  through,  which  Ensign  Richard 
Doubledick  had  saved,  inspired  all  breasts — 
this  regiment  fought  its  way  through  the 
Peninsular  war,  up  to  the  investment  of 
Badajos  in  eighteen  hundred  and  twelve. 
Again  and  again  it  had  been  cheered  through 
the  British  ranks  until  the  tears  had  sprung 
into  men's  eyes  at  the  mere  hearing  of  the 
mighty  British  voice  so  exultant  in  their 
valor  ;  and  there  was  not  a  drummer-boy 
but  knew  the  legend,  that  wherever  the  two 
friends.  Major  Taunton  with  the  dark  bright 
eyes,  and  Ensign  Richard  Doubledick  who 
was  devoted  to  him,  were  seen  to  go,  there 
the  boldest  spirits  in  the  English  army  be- 
came wild  to  follow. 

/^One  day,  at  Badajos — not  in  the  great 
storming,  but  in  repelling  a  hot  sally  of  the 
besieged  upon  our  men  at  work  in  the 
trenches,  Avho  had  given  way,  the  two  officers 
found  themselves  hurrying  forward,  face  to 
face,  against  a  party  of  French  infantry  who 
made  a  stand.  There  was  an  officer  at  their 
head,  encouraging  his  men — a  courageous, 
handsome,  gallant  officer  of  five  and  thirty — 
whom  Doubledick  saw  hurriedly,  almost 
momentarily,  but  saw  well.  lie  particularly 
noticed  this  officer  waving  his  sword,  and 
rallying  his  men  with  an  eager  and  excited 
cry,  when  they  fired  in  obedience  to  his 
gesture,  and  Major  Taunton  dropped. 


THE   SEVEN   POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


It  was  over  in  ten  minutes  more,  and 
Doubleclick  returned  to  the  spot  where  he 
had  hiid  the  best  friend  man  ever  had,  on 
a  coat  spread  upon  the  wet  clay.  Major 
Taunton's  uniform  was  opened  at  the  breast, 
and  on  his  shirt  were  three  little  spots  of 
blood. 

"  Dear  Doubledick,"  said  he,  "  I  am 
dying;." 

"  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  no !"  exclaimed 
the  other,  kneeling  down  beside  him,  and 
passing  his  arm  round  his  neck  to  raise  his 
head.  "  Taunton  !  My  preserver,  my  guar- 
dian angel,  my  witness  !  Dearest,  truest, 
kindest  of  immau  beings  !  Taunton  !  For 
God's  sake !" 

The  bright  dark  eyes — so  very,  very  dark 
now,  in  the  pale  face — smiled  upon  him  ; 
and  the  hand  he  had  kissed  thirteen  years 
ago,  laid  itself  fondly  on  his  breast. 

"  Write  to  my  mother.  You  will  see  home 
again.  Tell  her  how  wc  became  friends.  It 
will  comfurt  her  as  it  comforts  me." 

He  spoke  no  more,  but  faintly  signed  for 
a  momiMit  towards  his  hair  as  it  fluttered  in 
the  wind.  The  Ensign  understood  him.  He 
smiled  .ag'iin  when  he  saw  that,  and  gently 
turning  his  face  over  on  the  supporting  arm 
as  if  for  rest,  died,  with  his  hand  upon  the 
breast  in  which  he  had  revived  a  soul. 

No  dry  eye  looked  on  Ensign  Richard 
Doubledick,  that  melancholy  day.  He  buried 
his  friend  on  the  field,  and  became  a  lone,  be- 
reaved man.  Beyond  his  duty  he  appeared 
to  have  but  two  remaining  cares  in  life  ;  one, 
to  preserve  the  little  packet  of  hair  he  was  to 
give  to  Taunton's  mother ;  the  other,  to  en- 
counter that  French  officer  who  had  rallied 
the  men  under  whose  fire  Taunton  fell.  A 
new  legend  now  began  to  circulate  among 
our  troops  ;  and  it  was,  that  when  he  and  the 
French  officer  came  face  to  face  once  more, 
there  would  be  weeping  in  France. 

The  war  went  on — and  through  it  went  the 
exact  picture  of  the  French  officer  on  the  one 
side,  and  the  bodily  reality  upon  the  other — 
until  the  Battle  of  Toulouse  was  fought.  In 
the  returns  sent  home,  appeared  these  words : 
"  Severely  wounded,  but  not  dangerously. 
Lieutenant  Richard  Doubledick." 

At  Midsummer  time  in  the  year  eighteen 
hundred  and  fourteen.  Lieutenant  Richard 
Doubledick,  now  a  browned  soldier,  seven 
and  thirty  years  of  age,  came  home  to  Eng- 
land, invalided.  He  brought  the  hair  with 
him,  near  his  heart.  Many  a  French  officer 
had  he  seen,  since  that  day ;  many  a  dread- 
ful night,  in  searching  with  men  and  kxnterns 
for  his  wounded,  had  he  relieved  French  offi- 
cers lying  disabled  ;  but  the  mental  picture 
and  the  reality  had  never  come  togetlier. 

Though  he  was  weak  and  suffered  pain,  he 
lost  not  an  hour  in  getting  down  to  Frome 
in  Somersetshire,  where  Taunton's  mother 
lived.  In  the  sweet  compassionate  words  that 
naturally   present  themselves  to  the  mind 


to-night,  "  he  was  the  only  son  of  his  mother, 
and  she  was  a  widow." 

It  was  a  Sunday  evening  and  the  lady  sat 
at  her  quiet  garden-window,  reading  the  Bi- 
ble ;  reading  to  herself,  in  a  trembling  voice, 
that  very  passage  in  it  as  I  have  heard  him 
tell.  He  heard  the  words,  "  Young  man,  I 
say  unto  thee,  arise  !" 

He  had  to  pass  the  window  ;  and  the  bright 
dark  eyes  of  his  debased  time  seemed  to  look 
at  him.  Her  heart  told  her  who  he  was  ;  she 
came  to  the  door,  quickly,  and  fell  upon  his 
neck. 

"  He  saved  me  from  ruin,  made  me  a  hu- 
man creature,  won  me  from  infamy  and 
shame.  O  God,  for  ever  bless  him  !  As  II« 
will,  He  will!" 

"  He  will !"  the  lady  answered.  "  I  know 
he  is  in  Heaven !"  Then  she  piteously 
cried,  "  But,  O,  my  darling  boy,  my  darling 
boy !" 

Never,  from  the  hour  when  Private  Rich- 
ard Doubledick  enlisted  at  Chatham,  had 
the  Private,  Corporal,  Sergeant,  Sergeant- 
Major,  Ensign,  or  Lieutenant,  breathed  his 
right  name,  or  the  name  of  Mary  Marshall, 
or  a  word  of  the  story  of  his  life,  into  any 
ear,  except  his  reclaimer's.  That  previous 
scene  in  his  existence  was  closed.  He  had 
firmly  resolved  that  his  expiation  should  be, 
to  live  unknown ;  to  disturb  no  more  the 
peace  that  had  long  grown  over  his  old 
ofiences  ;  to  let  it  be  revealed  when  he  was 
dead,  that  he  had  striven  and  suffered,  and 
had  never  forgotten  ;  and  then,  if  they  could 
forgive  him  and  believe  him — well,  it  would 
be  time  enough — time  enough  ! 

But,  that  night,  remembering  the  words  he 
had  cherished  for  two  years,  ''  Tell  her  how 
we  became  friends.  It  will  comfort  her,  as  it 
cimiforts  me,"  he  related  everything.  It 
gradually  seemed  to  him,  as  if  in  his  matu- 
rity he  had  recovered  a  mother  ;  it  gradually 
seemed  to  her,  as  if  in  her  bereavement  she 
had  found  a  son.  During  his  stay  in  Eng- 
land, the  quiet  garden  into  which  he  had 
slowly  and  painfully  crept,  a  stranger,  be- 
came the  boundary  of  his  home  ;  when  he 
was  able  to  rejoin  his  regiment  in  the  spring, 
lie  left  the  garden,  thinking  was  this  indeed 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  turned  his  fao 
towards  the  old  colors,  with  a  woman's 
blessing ! 

He  followed  them — so  ragged,  so  scarred 
and  pierced  now,  that  they  would  scarcely 
hold  together — to  Quatre  Bras,  and  Ligny. 
He  stood  beside  them,  in  an  awful  stillness 
of  many  men,  shadowy  through  the  mist  and 
drizzle  of  a  wet  June  forenoon,  on  the  field 
of  Waterloo.  And  down  to  that  hour,  the 
picture  in  his  mind  of  the  Frencli  officer  had 
never  been  compared  with  the  reality. 

The  famous  regiment  was  in  action  early 

in  the  battle,  and  received  its  first  check  in 

many  an  eventful  year,  when  he  was  seen  to 

I  fall.     But  it  swept  on  to  avenge  him,  and 


10 


DICIiEXS'   XEW   STORIES. 


left  behind  no  such  creature  in  the  world  of 
consciousness,  as  Lieutenant  Eichard  Dou- 
bledick. 

Through  pits  of  mire,  and  pools  of  rain  ; 
along  deep  ditches,  once  roads,  that  were 
pounded  and  ploughed  to  pieces  by  artillery, 
heavy  waggons,  tramp  of  men  and  horses, 
and  the  struggle  of  every  wheeled  thing  that 
could  carry  wounded  soldiers  ;  jolted  among 
the  dying  and  the  dead,  so  disfigured  by 
blood  and  mud  as  to  be  hardly  recognisable 
for  humanity ;  undisturbed  by  the  moaning 
of  men  and  the  shrieking  of  horses,  which, 
newly  taken  from  the  peaceful  pursuits  of 
life.  cc*uld  not  endure  the  sight  of  the  strag- 
glers Ijing  by  the  wayside,  never  to  resume 
their  toilsome  journey  ;  dead,  as  to  any  sen- 
tient life  that  was  in  it,  and  yet  alive  ;  the 
form  that  had  been  Lieutenant  Richard  Dou- 
bledick,  with  whose  praises  England  rang, 
was  conveyed  to  Brussels.  There,  it  was 
tenderly  laid  down  in  hospital:  and  there 
it  lay,  week  after  week,  through  the  long 
bright  summer  days,  until  the  harvest,  spared 
by  war,  had  ripened  and  was  gathered  in. 

Over  and  over  again  the  sun  rose  and  set 
upon  the  crowded  city  ;  over  and  over  again, 
the  moonlight  nights  were  quiet  on  the 
plains  of  Waterloo ;  and  all  that  time  was  a 
blank  to  what  had  been  Lieutenant  Richard 
Doubledick.  Rejoicing  troops  marched  into 
Brussels,  and  marched  out ;  brothers  and 
fathers,  sisters,  mothers,  and  wives,  came 
thronging  thither,  drew  their  lots  of  joy  or 
agony,  and  departed  ;  so  many  times  a  day, 
the  bells  rang  ;  so  many  times,  the  shadows 
of  the  great  building  changed ;  so  many 
lights  sprang  up  at  dusk ;  so  many  feet  passed 
here  and  there  upon  the  pavements ;  so  many 
hours  of  sleep  and  cooler  air  of  night  suc- 
ceeded ;  indifferent  to  all,  a  marble  face  lay 
on  a  bed,  like  the  face  of  a  recumbent 
statue  on  the  tomb  of  Lieutenant  Richard 
Doubledick. 

Slowly  labouring,  at  last,  through  a  long 
heavy  dream  of  confused  time  and  place,  pre- 
senting faint  glimpses  of  army  surgeons 
whom  he  knew,  and  of  faces  that  had  been 
familiar  to  his  youth — dearest  and  kindest 
among  them,  Mary  Marshall's,  with  a  solici- 
tude upon  it  more  like  reality  than  anything 
he  could  discern — Lieutenant  Richard  Dou- 
bledick came  back  to  life.  To  the  beautiful 
life  of  a  calm  autumn  evening  sunset.  To 
the  peaceful  life  of  a  fresh  quiet  room  with 
a  large  window  standing  open ;  a  balcony, 
beyond,  in  which  were  moving  leaves  and 
sweet-smelling  flowers ;  beyond  again,  the 
clear  sky,  with  the  sun  full  in  his  sight, 
pouring  its  golden  radiance  on  his  bed. 

It  was  so  tranquil  and  so  lovely,  that  he 
thought  he  had  passed  into  another  world. 
And  he  said  in  a  faint  voice,  "  Taunton,  are 
you  near  me  ?" 

A  face  bent  over  him.  Not  his ;  his 
H)  other's. 


"  I  came  to  nurse  you.  We  have  nursed 
you  many  weeks.  You  were  moved  here, 
long  ago.     Do  you  remember  notliing  ?" 

'•  Nothing." 

The  lady  kissed  his  cheek,  and  held  his 
hand,  soothing  him. 

"Where  is  the  regiment?  What  has 
happened  ?  Let  me  call  you  mother.  What 
has  happened,  mother  V 

"  A  great  victory,  dear.  The  war  is  over, 
and  the  regiment  was  the  bravest  in  the 
field." 

His  eyes  kindled,  his  lips  trembled,  he 
sobbed,  and  the  tears  ran  down  his  face. 
He  was  very  weak :  too  weak  to  move  his 
hand. 

"  Was  it  dark  just  now  ?"  he  asked  pre- 
sently. 

"  No." 

"  Jt  was  only  dark  to  me?  Something 
passed  away,  like  a  black  shadow.  But  as  it 
went,  and  the  sun — 0  the  blessed  sun,  how 
beautiful  it  is  ! — touched  my  face,  I  thought 
I  saw  a  light  white  cloud  pass  out  at  the 
door.     Was  there  nothing  that  went  out?" 

She  shook  her  head,  and,  in  a  little  while, 
he  fell  asleep :  she  still  holding  his  hand, 
and  soothing  him. 

From  that  time,  he  recovered.  Slowly,  for 
he  had  been  desperately  wounded  in  the 
head,  and  had  been  shot  in  the  body  ;  but, 
making  some  little  advance  every  day.  When 
he  had  gained  sufficient  strength  to  converse 
as  he  lay  in  bed,  he  soon  began  to  remark 
that  Mrs.  Taunton  always  brought  him  back 
to  his  own  history.  Then,  he  recalled  his 
preserver's  dying  words,  and  thought,  "  it 
comforts  her." 

One  day,  he  awoke  out  of  a  sleep,  re- 
freshed, and  asked  her  to  read  to  him.  But, 
the  curtain  of  the  bed,  softening  the  light, 
which  she  always  drew  back  when  he  awoke, 
that  she  might  see  him  from  her  table  at  the 
bed-side  where  she  sat  at  work,  was  held 
undrawn  ;  and  a  woman's  voice  spoke,  which 
was  not  hers. 

"  Can  you  bear  to  see  a  stranger  ?"  it  said 
softly.     "  Will  you  like  to  see  a  stranger  ?" 

"  Stranger !"  he  repeated.  The  voice 
awoke  old  memories,  before  the  days  of  Pri- 
vate Richard  Doubledick. 

"  A  stranger  now,  but  not  a  strangei 
once,"  it  said  in  tones  that  thrilled  liim. 
"  Richard,  dear  Richard,  lost  through  su 
many  years,  my  name " 

He  cried  out  her  name,  "  Mary  !"  and  she 
held  him  in  her  arms,  and  his  head  lay  on 
her  bosom. 

"  I  am  not  breaking  a  rash  vow,  Richard. 
These  are  not  Mary  Marshall's  lips  that 
speak.     I  have  another  name." 

She  was  married. 

"  I  have  another  name,  Richard.  Did  you 
ever  hear  it  ?" 

"  Never  !" 

He  looked  into  her  face,  so  pensively  beau- 


THE  SEVEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


11 


tiful,  and  vrondered  at  the  smile  upon  it 
throug;h  her  tears. 

"Think  again,  Richard.  Are  you  sure 
you  never  heard  my  altered  name  ?" 

"  Never  I" 

"  Don't  move  your  head  to  look  at  me, 
dear  Richard.  Let  it  lie  here,  while  I  tell 
niy  story.  I  loved  a  generous,  noble  man  ; 
loved  him  with  my  whole  heart;  loved  him 
for  years  and  years  ;  loved  him  faithfully, 
devotedly ;  loved  him  with  no  hope  of  return  ; 
loved  him,  knowing  nothing  of  his  highest 
qualities — not  even  knowing  that  he  was 
alive.  He  was  a  brave  soldier.  lie  was 
honoured  and  beloved  by  thousands  of  thou- 
sands, when  the  mother  of  his  dear  friend 
found  me,  and  showed  me  that  in  all  his  tri- 
umphs he  had  never  forgotten  me.  He  was 
wounded  in  a  great  battle.  He  was  brought, 
dying,  here,  into  Brussels,  I  came  to  watch 
and  tend  him,  as  I  would  have  joyfully  gone, 
with  such  a  purpose,  to  the  dreariest  ends 
of  the  earth.  When  he  knew  no  one  else  he 
knew  me.  When  he  suffered  most,  he  bore 
his  sufferings  barely  murmuring,  content  to 
rest  his  head  where  yours  rests  noM'.  When 
he  lay  at  the  point  of  death,  he  married  me, 
that  he  might  call  me  wife  before  he  died. 
And  the  name,  my  dear  love,  that  I  took  on 
tliat  forgotten  night " 

"  I  know  it  now  !"  he  sobbed.  "  The  sha- 
dowy remembrance  strengthens.  It  is  come 
back.  I  thank  heaven  that  my  mind  is  quite 
restored  !  My  Mary,  kiss  me  ;  lull  this  weary 
head  to  rest,  or  I  shall  die  of  gratitude.  His 
parting  words  are  fulfilled.  I  see  home 
again  \" 

Well !  They  were  happy.  It  was  a  long 
recovei'y,  but  they  were  happy  through  it 
all.  The  snow  had  melted  on  the  ground, 
and  the  birds  were  singing  in  the  leafless 
thickets  of  the  early  spring,  when  these  three 
were  first  able  to  ride  out  together,  and  when 
people  flocked  about  the  open  carriage  to 
cheer  and  congratulate  Captain  Richard 
Boubledick. 

But,  even  then,  it  became  necessary  for 
the  Captain,  instead  of  returning  to  England, 
to  complete  his  recovery  in  the  climate  of 
Southern  France.  They  found  a  spot  upon 
the  Rhone,  within  a  ride  of  the  old  town  of 
Avignon,  and  within  view  of  its  broken 
bridge,  which  was  all  they  could  desire ; 
they  lived  there,  together,  six  months ;  then 
returned  to  England.  Mrs.  Taunton  growing 
old  after  three  years — though  not  so  old  as 
that  her  bright  dark  eyes  were  dimmed — 
and  remembering  that  her  strength  had  been 
benefitted  by  the  change,  resolved  to  go  back 
for  a  year  to  those  parts.  So  she  went  with 
a  faithful  servant,  who  had  often  carried  her 
son  in  his  arms ;  and  she  was  to  be  rejoined 
and  escorted  home,  at  the  year's  end,  by 
Captain  Richard  Doubledick. 

She  wrote  regularly  to  her  children  (as  she 
called  them  now),  and  they  to  her.     She 


went  to  the  neighborhood  of  Aix  ;  and  there, 
in  their  own  chateau  near  the  farmer's  house 
she  rented,  she  grew  into  intimacy  with  a 
family  belonging  to  that  part  of  France, 
The  intimacy  began,  in  her  often  meeting 
among  the  vineyards  a  pretty  child :  a  girl 
with  a  most  compassionate  heart,  who  was 
never  tired  of  listening  to  the  solitary  English 
lady's  stories  of  her  poor  son  and  the  cruel 
wars.  The  family  were  as  gentle  as  the  child, 
and  at  length  she  came  to  know  them  so 
well,  that  she  accepted  their  invitation  to 
pass  the  last  month  of  her  residence  abroad, 
under  their  roof.  All  this  intelligence  she 
wrote  home,  piecemeal  as  it  came  about, 
from  time  to  time  ;  and,  at  last,  enclosed  a 
polite  note  from  the  head  of  the  chateau,  so- 
liciting, on  the  occasion  of  his  approaching 
mission  to  that  neighborhood,  the  honour 
of  the  company  of  cet  homme  si  justement 
c61t!bre  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Richard 
DouVjledick. 

Captain  Doubledick  ;  now  a  hardy,  hand- 
some man  in  the  full  vigor  of  life,  broader 
across  the  chest  and  shoulders  than  ho  had 
ever  been  before  ;  dispatched  a  courteous 
reply,  and  followed  it  in  person.  Travelling 
through  all  that  extent  of  country  after  three 
years  of  peace,  he  blessed  the  better  days  on 
which  the  world  had  fallen.  The  corn  was 
golden,  not  drenched  in  unnatural  red  ;  was 
bound  in  sheaves  for  food,  not  trudden  under- 
foot by  men  in  mortal  fight.  The  smoke  rose 
up  from  peaceful  hearths,  not  blazing  ruins. 
The  carts  were  laden  with  the  fair  fruits  of 
the  earth,  not  with  wuunds  and  death.  To 
him  who  had  so  often  seen  the  terrilde  re- 
verse, these  things  were  beautiful  indeed, 
and  they  brought  him  in  a  softened  spirit  to 
the  old  chateau  near  Aix,  upon  a  deep  blue 
evening. 

It  was  a  large  chateau  of  the  genuine  old 
ghostly  kind,  with  round  towers,  and  extin- 
guishers, and  a  high  leaden  roof,  and  more 
windows  than  Aladdin's  Palace.  The  lattice 
blinds  were  all  thrown  open,  after  the  heat  of 
the  day,  and  there  were  glimpses  of  rambling 
walls  and  corridors  within.  Then,  there 
were  immense  outbuildings  fallen  into  par- 
tial decay,  masses  of  dark  trees,  terrace- 
gardens,  balustrades ;  tanks  of  water,  tuo 
weak  to  play  and  too  dirty  to  work  ;  statues, 
weeds,  and  thickets  of  iron  railing,  that 
seemed  to  have  overgrown  themselves  like 
the  shrubberies,  and  to  have  branched  out 
in  all  manner  of  wild  shapes.  The  entrance 
doors  stood  open,  as  doors  often  do  in  that 
country  when  the  heat  of  the  day  is  past, 
and  the  Captain  saw  no  bell  or  knocker,  and 
walked  in. 

He  walked  into  a  lofty  stone  hall,  refresh- 
ingly cool  and  gloomy  after  the  glare  of  a 
southern  day's  travel.  Extending  along  the 
four  sides  of  this  hall,  was  a  gallery,  leading 
to  suites  of  rooms;  and  it  was  lighted  from 
the  top.     Still  no  bell  was  to  be  seen. 


12 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


"  Faith,"  said  the  Captain,  halting, 
ashamed  of  the  chinking  of  his  boots,  "  this 
is  a  gliostly  beginning!" 

lie  started  back,  and  felt  his  face  turn 
white.  In  the  gallery,  looking  down  at  him, 
Btood  the  French  officer  ;  the  officer  whose 
picture  he  had  carried  in  his  mind  so  long 
and  so  far.  Compared  with  the  original,  at 
last — in  every  lineament  how  like  it  was ! 

He  moved  and  disappeared,  and  Captain 
Richard  Doubledick  heard  his  steps  coming 
quickly  down  into  the  hall.  He  entered 
through  an  archway.  There  was  a  bright, 
iudden  look  upon  his  face.  Much  such  a 
look  as  it  had  worn  in  that  fatal  moment. 

Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Richard  Double- 
dick ?  Enchanted  to  receive  him  !  A  thou- 
sand apologies  !  The  servants  were  all  out 
in  the  air.  There  was  a  little  fete  among 
them  in  the  garden.  In  effect,  it  was  the 
fete  day  of  my  daughter,  the  little  cherished 
and  protected  of  Madame  Taunton. 

He  was  so  gracious  and  so  frank,  that 
Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Richard  Doubledick 
could  not  withhold  his  hand.  "  It  is  the  hand 
of  a  brave  Englishman,"  said  the  French 
officer,  retaining  it  while  he  spoke.  "  I  could 
respect  a  brave  Englishman,  even  as  my  foe  ; 
how  much  more  as  my  friend !  I,  also,  am 
a  soldier." 

"lie  has  not  remembered  me,  as  I  have 
remembered  him  ;  he  did  not  take  such  note 
of  my  face,  that  day,  as  I  took  of  his," 
thought  Captain  Richard  Doubledick.  "  How 
shall  I  tell  him  ?" 

The  French  officer  conducted  his  guest 
into  a  garden,  and  presented  him  to  his  wife ; 
an  engaging  and  beautiful  woman,  sitting 
with  Mrs.  Taunton  in  a  whimsical  old- 
fashioned  pavilion.  Ilis  daughter,  her  fair 
young  face  beaming  with  joy,  came  running 
to  embrace  him  ;  and  there  was  a  boy-baby 
to  tumble  down  among  the  orange-trees  on 
the  broad  steps,  in  making  for  his  father's 
legs.  A  multitude  of  children-visitors  were 
dancing  to  sprightly  music ;  and  all  the  ser- 
vants and  peasants  about  the  chateau  were 
dancing  too.  It  was  a  scene  of  innocent 
happiness  that  might  have  been  invented  for 
the  climax  of  the  scenes  of  peace  which  had 
eoothed  the  Captain's  journey. 

He  looked  on,  greatly  troubled  in  his  mind, 
until  a  resounding  bell  rang,  and  the  French 
officer  begged  to  show  him  his  rooms.  They 
went  up  stairs  into  the  gallery  from  which 
the  officer  had  looked  down ;  and  Monsieur  le 
Capitaine  Richard  Doubledick  was  cordially 
welcomed  to  a  grand  outer  chamber,  and  a 
smaller  one  within,  all  clocks  and  draperies, 
and  hearths,  and  brazen  dogs,  and  tiles,  and 
cool  devices,  and  elegance,  and  vastness. 

"  You  were  at  Waterloo,"  said  the  French 
officer. 

''  I  was,"  said  Captain  Richard  Double- 
dick.    "And  at  Badajos." 

Left  alone  with  the  sound  of  his  own  stern 


voice  in  his  ears,  he  sat  down  to  consider 
What  shall  I  do,  and  how  shall  I  tell  him? 
At  that  time,  unhappily,  many  deplorable 
duels  had  been  fought  between  English  and 
French  officers,  arising  out  of  the  recent  war  ; 
and  these  duels,  and  how  to  avoid  this  offi- 
cer's hospitality,  were  the  uppermost  thought 
in  Captain  Richard  Doubledick's  mind. 

He  was  thinking  and  letting  the  time  run 
out  in  which  he  should  have  dressed  for 
dinner,  when  Mrs.  Taunton  spoke  to  him 
outside  the  door,  asking  if  he  could  give  her 
the  letter  he  had  brought  from  Mary.  "  His 
mother,  above  all,"  the  Captain  thought, 
"  How  shall  I  tell  her  f" 

"  You  will  form  a  friendship  with  your 
host,  I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Taunton,  whom 
he  hurriedly  admitted,  "that  will  last  for 
life.  He  is  so  true-hearted  and  so  generous, 
Richard,  that  you  can  hardly  fail  to  esteem 
one  another.  If  he  had  been  spared,"  sbe 
kissed  (not  without  tears)  the  locket  in 
which  she  wore  his  hair,  "he  would  have 
appreciated  him  with  his  own  magnanimity, 
and  would  have  been  truly  happy  that  the 
evil  days  were  past,  which  made  such  a  man 
his  enemy." 

She  left  the  room  ;  and  the  Captain  walked, 
first  to  one  window,  whence  he  could  see  the 
dancing  in  the  garden,  then  to  another 
window,  whence  he  could  see  the  smiling 
prospect  and  the  peaceful  vineyards. 

"  Spirit  of  my  departed  friend,"  said  he, 
"is  it  through  thee,  these  better  thoughts 
are  rising  in  my  mind!  Is  it  thou  who  hast 
shown  me,  all  the  way  I  have  been  drawn 
to  meet  this  man,  the  blessings  of  the  altered 
time  !  Is  it  thou  who  hast  sent  thy  stricken 
mother  to  me,  to  stay  my  angry  hand  !  Is 
it  from  thee  the  whisper  comes,  that  this 
man  did  his  duty  as  thou  didst — and  as  I 
did,  through  thy  guidance,  which  has  wholly 
saved  me,  here  on  earth — and  that  he  did  no 
more  !" 

He  sat  down,  with  his  head  buried  in  his 
hands,  and,  when  he  rose  up,  made  the  se- 
cond strong  resolution  of  his  life :  That 
neither  to  the  French  officer,  nor  to  the 
mother  of  his  departed  friend,  nor  to  any 
soul  while  either  of  the  two  was  living, 
would  he  breathe  what  only  he  knew.  And 
when  he  touched  that  French  officer's  glass 
with  his  own,  that  day  at  dinner,  he  secretly 
forgave  him  in  the  name  of  the  Divine  For- 
giver  of  injuries. 

Here  I  ended  my  story  as  the  first  Poor 
Traveller.  But,  if  1  had  told  it  now,  I  could 
have  added  that  the  time  has  since  come 
when  the  son  of  Major  Richard  Douliledick, 
and  the  son  of  that  French  officer,  friends  as 
their  fathers  were  before  them,  fought  side 
by  side  in  one  cause  :  with  their  respective 
nations,  like  long-divided  brothers  whom  the 
better  times  have  brought  together,  fast 
united. 


THE    SECOND    POOR    TRAVELLER. 


I  AM,  by  trade  (said  the  man  with  his  arm 
in  a  sling),  a  shipwright.  I  am  recovering 
from  an  unlucky  chop  that  one  of  my  mates 
gave  me  with  an  adze.  AVhen  I  am  all  right 
again,  I  shall  get  taken  on  in  Chatham 
Yard.  I  have  nutliing  else  in  particular  to 
tell  of  myself,  so  I'll  tell  a  bit  of  a  story  of  a 
seaport  town. 

Acoi.-Virlaz,  the  jeweller,  sat  in  his  shop 
on  the  Common  Hard  of  Belleriport,  smoking 
his  evening  pipe.  Business  was  tolerably 
brisk  in  Belleriport  just  then.  The  great 
three-decker,  the  Blunderbore  (Admiral 
Pumpkinseed's  ilag-ship),  had  just  come  in 
from  the  southern  seas  with  the  rest  of  the 
squadron,  and  had  been  paid  off.  The  big 
screw  line-of-battle  ship  Fantail,  Captain  Sir 
Heaver  Cole,  K.C.B.,  had  got  her  blue-peter 
up  for  Kamschatka,  and  her  crew  had  been 
paid  advance  wnges.  The  Dundruni  war- 
steamer  was  fresh  coppering  in  the  graving 
dock,  and  her  men  were  enjojing  a  three 
weeks'  run  ashore.  The  Barracouta,  the 
Calabash,  the  Skullsmasher,  and  the  Nose- 
ring had  returned  from  the  African  station 
with  lots  of  prize-money  from  captured 
slavers.  The  JoUyport  division  of  Royal 
Marines — who  had  plenty  of  money  to 
spend,  and  spent  it  too  ;  occupied  the  Ma- 
rine barracks.  The  Ninety-eight  Plungers, 
together  with  the  depot  companies  of  the 
Fourteenth  Royal  Screamers,  had  marched 
in  to  relieve  the  Seventy-third  Wrestlers. 
Tliere  was  some  thought  of  embodying,  for 
garrison  duty,  in  Belleriport,  the  Seventh  or 
West  Swampshire  Drabs  regiment  of  Militia. 
Belleriport  was  full  of  sailors,  soldiers  and 
nuirines.  Seven  gold-laced  cocked  hats  could 
be  observed  on  the  door  steps  of  the  George 
Hotel  at  one  time.  Almost  every  lady's 
bonnet  in  the  High  Street  had  a  military  or 
naviil  officer's  head  looking  under  it.  You 
ciiuld  scarcely  get  into  Miss  Pyeboard  the 
pastry-cook's  shop  for  midshipmen.  There 
were  so  many  soldiers  in  the  streets,  that 
you  were  inclined  to  take  the  whole  of  the 
population  of  Belleriport  for  lobsters,  and  to 
imagine  that  half  of  them  were  boiled  and 
the  other  half  waiting  to  be.  The  Common 
Hard  was  as  soft  as  a  featherbed  with  sailors. 
Lieutenant  Hook  at  the  Rendezvous  was 
busy  all  day  enrolling  A  B's,  ordinaries, 
and  stout  lads.  The  Royal  Grubbington 
victualling  yard  was  turning  out  thousands 
of  barrels  of  salt  beef  and  pork  and  sea  bis- 
cuit per  diem.  Huge  guns  were  being 
hoisted  on  board  ship ;  seaman-riggers,  caulk- 


ers, carpenters,  and  shipwrights,  were  all 
some  hundreds  of  degrees  busier  than  bees  : 
and  sundry  gentlemen  in  the  dockyard, 
habited  in  simple  suits  of  drab,  marked 
with  the  broad  arrow — with  striped  stock- 
ings and  glazed  hats,  and  after  whose  per- 
sonal safety  sentinels  with  fixed  bayonets 
and  warders  in  oilskin  coats  affectionately 
looked — were  busy  too,  in  their  way  :  drag- 
ging about  chain-cables,  blocks  and  spars; 
and  heavy  loads  of  timber,  steadily  bui  sul- 
kily ;  and,  in  their  close-shaven,  beetle- 
browed  countenances,  evincing  a  silent  but 
profound  disgust. 

Aeon  Virlaz  had  not  done  so  badly  dur- 
ing Belleriport's  recent  briskness.  He  was 
a  jeweller  ;  and  sold  watches,  rings,  chains, 
bracelets,  snuff-boxes,  brooches,  shirt-studs, 
sleeve-buttons,  pencil-cases,  and  true  lovers' 
knots.  But  his  trade  in  jewels  did  not  inter- 
fere with  his  also  vending  hammocks,  tele- 
scopes, sou'wester  hats,  lime-juice,  maps, 
charts  and  log-books,  Guernsey  shirts,  clasp 
knives,  pea-coats,  preserved  meats,  razors, 
swinging  lamps,  sea-chests,  dancing-pumps, 
eye-glasses,  water-proof  overalls,  patent 
blacking,  and  silk  pocket-handkerchiefs  em 
blazoned  with  the  flags  of  all  nations.  Nor 
did  his  dealings  in  these  articles  prevent 
him  from  driving  a  very  tidy  little  business 
in  the  purchase  of  gold  dust,  elephants'  teeth, 
feathers  and  bandanas,  from  home-returned 
sailors  ;  nor  (so  the  censorious  said)  from  the 
cashing  of  seamen's  advance  notes,  and  the 
discounting  of  the  acceptances  of  the  officers 
of  her  majesty's  army  and  navy  ;  nor  (so 
the  downright  libellous  asserted)  from  doing 
a  little  in  the  wine  line,  and  a  little  in  the 
picture  line,  and  a  good  deal,  when  occasion 
required  it,  in  the  crimp  line. 

Acon-Virlaz  sat  in  his  shop  on  the  Com- 
mon Hard  of  Belleriport  smoking  his  evening 
pipe.  It  was  in  the  back  shop  that  Acon- 
Virlaz  sat.  Above  his  head,  hung  the  ham- 
mocks, the  pilot-trowsers  narrow  at  the  knees 
and  wide  at  the  ancles,  and  the  swinging 
lamps,  and  the  water-proof  overalls.  The 
front  shop  loomed  dimly  through  a  grove  of 
pea-coats,  sou'-wester  hats,  Guernsey  shirts, 
and  cans  of  preserved  meats.  One  little  gas  jet 
in  the  back  shop — for  the  front  gas  was  not  yet 
lighted — flickered  on  the  heterogeneous  arti- 
cles hanging  and  heaped  up  together  all 
around.  The  gas  just  tipped  with  light  the 
brass  knobs  of  the  drawers  which  ran  round 
all  the  four  sides  of  the  shop,  tier  above  tier, 
and  held  Moses  knows  how  many  more  trea 

(13) 


14 


DICKEXS'    NEAV   STORIES. 


«ires  of  watchmakinfr,  tailoring,  and  outfit- 
tinf:;.  The  gas,  just  defined  by  feebly-ishin- 
ing  threads,  the  salient  linos  and  angles  of  a 
great  iron  safe  in  one  corner  ;  and  finally  the 
gas  just  gleamed — twinkled  furtively,  like 
a  magpie  looking  into  a  marrow  bone — upon 
the  heap  of  jewelry  ctdlected  upon  the 
great  slate-covered  counter  in  Acon-Virlaz's 
back  shop. 

The  counter  was  covered  with  slate  ;  for, 
upon  it  Acon-Virlaz  loved  to  chalk  his  cal- 
culations. It  was  ledger,  daj'-book,  and 
journal,  all  in  one.  The  little  curly  headed 
Jew  boy  who  was  cl'^rk,  sliopmau,  messen- 
ger, and  a.ssistant-nieasurer,  in  the  tailoring 
department  of  the  establishment,  would  as 
soon  have  tliought  of  eating  roast  sucking- 
pig  beneath  Acon-Virlaz's  nose,  as  of  wiping, 
dusting,  or,  indeed,  touching  the  sacred  slate 
counter  without  special  permission  and  au- 
thority from  Acon-Virlaz  himself. 

By  the  way,  it  was  not  by  that  name  that 
the  jeweller  and  outfitter  was  known  in  Bel- 
leriport.  He  went  by  a  simpler,  homelier, 
shorter  appellation  :  Closes,  Levy,  Sheeny — 
what  j'ou  will ;  it  does  not  much  matter 
which  ;  for  most  of  the  Hebrew  nation  have 
an  inner  name  as  well  as  an  inner  and  richer 
life. 

Acon-Virlaz  was  a  little,  plump,  round, 
black-eyed,  red-lipped,  blue-bearded  man. 
Age  had  begun  to  discount  his  head,  and 
had  given  him  sixty  per  cent,  of  gray  hairs. 
A-top  he  was  bald,  and  wore  a  little  skull- 
cap. He  had  large  fat  hands,  all  creased 
and  tumbled,  as  if  his  skin  were  too  large 
for  him  ;  and,  on  one  forefinger,  he  wore  a 
great  cornelian  signet-ring,  about  which 
there  were  all  sorts  of  legends.     Miriam, 

his  daughter,  said but  what  have  I  to  do 

with  JMiriam,  his  daughter  ?     She  does  not 
enter  into  this  history  at  all. 

The  evening  pipe  that  Acon-Virlaz  was 
smoking  was  very  mild  and  soothing.  The 
blue  haze  went  curling  softly  upwards,  and 
seemed  to  describe  pleasfint  figures  of  £,.  s.  d. 
as  it  ascended.  Through  the  grove,  across 
the  front  shop,  Acon-Virlaz  could  see  little 
epecks  of  gas  from  the  lamps  in  the  street ; 
could  hear  Barney,  his  little  clerk  and  shop- 
boy,  softly  whistling  as  he  kept  watch  and 
ward  upon  the  watches  in  the  front  window 
and  the  habiliments  exposed  for  sale  outside  ; 
could  hear  the  sounds  of  a  fiddle  from  the  Ad- 
miral Nelson  next  door,  where  the  men-of- 
wars-men  were  dancing  ;  could  by  a  certain, 
pleasant,  subtle  smell  from  regions  yet  far- 
ther back,  divine  that  Mrs.  Virlaz  (her  father 
was  a  Bar-Galli,  and  worth  hills  of  gold)  was 
cooking  something  nice  for  supper. 

From  the  pleasures  of  his  pipe  Acon-A'^irlaz 
turned  to  the  pleasures  of  his  jewelry.  It 
lay  there  on  the  slate-covered  counter,  rich 
and  rare.  Big  diamonds,  rubies,  opals,  eme- 
ralds, sapphires,  amethysts,  topazes,  turquoi- 
BBS,   and   pearls.     By  the  jewels  lay  gold. 


Gold  in  massy  chains,  in  mourning  rings,  in 
massy  bracelets,  in  chased  snulf-l)uxes — in 
gold  snuff  too — that  is  in  dingy,  dull  dust 
from  the  Guinea  coast;  in  flakes  and  mis- 
shapen lumps  from  the  mine;  in  toy-watclies, 
in  brave  chronometers,  in  lockets,  vinai- 
grettes, brooches,  and  such  woman's  gear. 
The  voice  of  the  watches  was  dumb  ;  the 
little  flasks  were  scentless ;  but,  how  much 
beauty,  life,  strength,  power,  lay  in  these 
coloured  baubles  !     Acon-Virlaz  sighed. 

Here,  a  little  clock  in  the  front  shop,  which 
nestled  ordinarily  in  the  midst  of  a  wilder- 
ness of  boots,  and  thought  apparently  a 
great  deal  more  of  itself  than  its  size  war- 
ranted, after  a  prodigious  deal  of  running 
down,  gasping,  and  clucking,  struck  nine. 
Acon-Virlaz  laid  down  his  pipe,  and  turning 
the  gas  a  little  higher,  was  about  calling  out 
to  Mrs.  Virlaz,  that  daughter  of  Bar-Galli 
(she  was  very  stout,  and  fried  fish  in  sky- 
blue  satin),  to  know  what  she  had  got  for 
supper,  when  a  dark  body  became  mistily 
apparent  in  the  recesses  of  the  grove  of 
Guernsey  shirts  and  sou'-westers,  shutting 
out  the  view  of  the  distant  specks  of  gas  in 
the  street  beyond.  At  the  same  time,  a 
voice,  that  seemed  to  run  upon  a  tramway,  so 
«m.ooth  and  sliding  was  it,  said,  three  or 
four  times  over,  "  How  is  to-night  with  you, 
Mr.  Virlaz — how  is  it  with  you  this  beauti- 
ful night?  Aha!" 

The  voice  and  the  body  belonged  to  a 
gentleman  of  Mr.  Virlaz's  persuasion,  who 
was  stout  and  large,  and  very  elastic  in 
limb,  and  very  voluble  in  delivery,  in  the 
which  there  was,  I  may  remark,  a  tendency 
to  reiteration,  and  an  oily  softness  (inducing 
an  idea  that  the  tramway  I  mentioned  had 
been  sedulously  greased),  and  a  perceptible 
lisp.  Mr.  Virlaz's  friend  rubbed  his  hands 
(likewise  smooth  and  well  greased)  con- 
tinually. He  was  somewhat  loosely  jointed, 
which  caused  him  to  wag  his  head  from 
side  to  side  as  he  talked,  after  the  fashion 
of  an  image  ;  and  his  face  would  have  been 
a  great  deal  handstmer  if  his  com]ilexic>n 
had  not  been  quite  so  white  and  pasty,  and 
his  eyes  not  quite  so  pink,  and  both  together 
not  quite  so  like  a  suet  pudding  with  two 
raisins  in  it.  Mr.  Virlaz's  friend's  name 
was  Mr.  Ben-Daoud,  and  he  came  from 
Westhampton,  where  he  discounted  bills 
and  sold  clocks. 

"  Take  a  seat,  Ben,"  said  the  jeweller, 
when  he  had  recognized  his  friend  and 
shaken  hands  with  him  ;  "  Mrs.  \ .  will  be 
down  directly.  All  well  at  home  ?  Take 
a  pipe  ?" 

"  I  will  just  sit  down  a  little  minute,  and 
thank  you,  Mr.  Virlaz,"  Ben-Daoud  an- 
swered volubly  ;  "  and  all  are  well  but  little 
Zeeky,  who  has  thrushes,  and  has  swollen, 
the  dear  child,  much  since  yesterday  ;  but 
beg  Mrs.  Virlaz  not  to  disturb  herself  for 
me — for  I  am  not  long  here,  and  will  nut 


THE   SEVEN   POOR  TRAVELLERS 


15 


take  a  pipe,  having  a  cold,  and  being  about 
to  go  a  long  journey  to-morrow.    Aha  !" 

All  this  Mr.  Ben-Daoud  said  with  the  ex- 
treme volubility  which  I  have  noticed,  and 
in  the  exact  order  in  which  his  words  are  set 
down,  but  without  any  vocal  punctuation. 
There  was  considerable  doubt  among  the 
people  as  to  Mr.  Ben-Daoud's  nationality. 
Some  said  that  he  came  from  Poland ; 
others,  that  he  hailed  from  Frankfort-on 
the-Maine  ;  some  inclined  to  the  belief  that 
Amsterdam,  in  Holland,  was  his  natal 
place  ;  some,  that  Gibraltar  had  given  him 
birth,  or  the  still  more  distant  land  of  Tan- 
gier. At  all  events,  of  whatsoever  nation 
he  was,  or  if  not  of  any,  he  was  for  all 
Jewry,  and  knew  the  time  of  the  day  re- 
markably well.  He  had  been  in  the  rabbit- 
gkin  line  of  business  before  he  took  to  selling 
clocks,  to  which  he  added,  when  regiments 
were  in  garrison,  at  Westhampton,  the  art 
of  discounting. 

"Going  on  a  journey,  eh,  Ben?"  asked 
Acon-Virlaz.     "  Business  1" 

"  Oh,  business  of  course,  Mr.  Virlaz,"  his 
friend  replied.  "  Always  business.  I  have 
some  little  moneys  to  look  up,  and  some 
little  purchases  to  make,  and,  indeed,  hum- 
bly wish  to  turn  a  little  penny  ;  for  I  have 
very  many  heavy  calls  to  meet  next  month — 
a  little  bill  or  two  of  mine  you  hold,  by  the 
way,  among  the  rest,  Mr.  Virlaz." 

"  True,"  the  jeweller  said,  rather  ner- 
vously, and  putting  his  hand  on  a  great 
leathern  portfolio  in  his  breast  pocket,  in 
which  he  kept  his  acceptances  ;  "  and  shall 
you  be  long  gone,  Mr.  Daoud  ?" 

This  "  Mr.  Daoud,"  following  upon  the 
former  familiar  "  Ben,"  was  said  without 
sternness,  but  spoke  the  creditor  awakened 
to  his  rights.  It  seemed  to  say,  "  Smoke, 
drink,  and  be  merry  till  your  *  accepted 
payable  at  such  a  dat«'  comes  due  ;  but  pay 
then,  or  PU  sell  you  up  like  death." 

Mr.  Ben-Daoud  seemed  to  have  an  inkling 
of  this ;  for,  he  wagged  his  head,  rubbed  his 
hands,  and  answered,  more  volubly  than 
ever,  "  Oh,  as  to  that,  Mr.  Virlaz,  dear  sir, 
my  journey  is  but  of  two  days'  lasting.  I 
shall  be  back  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and 
•with  something  noticeable  in  the  way  of 
diamonds.  Aha!" 

"  Diamonds !"  exclaimed  Acon-Virlaz, 
glancing  towards  the  drawer  where  his  jew- 
els were ;  for  you  may  be  sure  he  had 
swept  them  all  away  into  safety  before  his 
friend  had  completed  his  entrance.  "  Dia- 
monds !  Where  are  you  going  for  diamonds, 
Ben  ?" 

"Why,  to  the  great  fair  that  is  held  to- 
morrow, Mr.  Virlaz,  as  well  you  know." 

"  Fair,  Ben  I  Is  there  any  fair  to-morrow 
near  Belleriport?" 

"  Why,  bless  my  heart,  Mr.  Virlaz." 
Ben-Daoud  responded,  holding  up  his  fat 
hands,  "can  it  be  that  you,  so  respectable 


and  noticeable  a  man  among  our  people, 
don't  know  that  to-morrow  is  the  great  jewel 
fair  that  is  held  once  in  every  hundred 
years,  at  which  diamonds,  rubies,  and  all 
other  pretty  stones  are  sold  cheap — cheap 
as  dirt,  m^  dear — a  hundred  thousand  gui- 
neas-worth for  sixpence,  one  may  say.  Your 
grandfather  must  have  been  there,  and  well 
he  made  his  market,  you  may  bo  sure 
Aha  !     Good  man  I" 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,"  gasped 
Acon-Virlaz,  perfectly  amazed  and  bewil- 
dered.    "And  what  do  you  call  this  fair?" 

"  Why,  Sky  Fair,  as  well  you  should 
know,  dear  sir." 

"  Sky  Fair  ?"  repeated  ♦he  jeweller. 

"  Sky  Fair,"  answered  Ben-Daoud. 

"  But  whereabouts  is  it?" 

"  Come  here,"  the  voluble  man  said.  Ha 
took  hold  of  Acon-Virlaz  by  the  wrist,  and 
led  him  through  the  grove  of  pea-coats  into 
the  front  shop  ;  through  the  front  shop  into 
the  open  street:  and  then  pointing  upwards, 
he  directed  the  gaze  of  the  Jew  to  where, 
in  the  otherwise  illuminated  sky,  there  was 
shining  one  solitary  star. 

"  Don't  it  look  pretty  ?"  he  asked,  sinking 
his  voice  into  a  confidential  whisper.  "  Do^'t 
it  look  like  a  diamond,  and  glitter  and 
twinkle  as  if  some  of  our  people  the  l'»pi- 
daries  in  Amsterdam  had  cut  it  into  f-ices  ? 
That's  where  Sky  Fair  is,  Mr.  Virlaz. 
Aha!" 

"And  you  are  going  there  to-moirow?" 
Acon-Virlaz  asked,  glancing  uneasily  at  his 
companion. 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  Ben-Daoud  replied, 
"with  my  little  bag  of  money  to  make  my 
little  purchases.  And  saving  your  presence, 
dear  sir,  I  think  you  will  be  a  great  fool  if 
you  don't  come  with  me,  and  make  some 
little  purchases  too.  For  diamonds,  Mr. 
Virlaz,  are  not  so  easily  come  by  every  day, 
as  in  Sky  Fair ;  and  a  hundred  years  is  a 
long  time  to  wait  before  one  can  make  an- 
other such  bargain." 

"  I'll  come,  Ben,"  the  jeweller  cried,  en- 
thusiastically. "  I'll  come  ;  and  if  e\  ,r  I 
can  do  you  any  little  obligation  in  the  way 
of  moneys,  I  will."  And  he  grasped  the 
hand  of  Ben-Daoud,  who  sold  clocki.  and 
discounted. 

"  Whv,  that's  right,"  the  other  returned. 
"  And  I'll  come  for  you  at  eight  o'clock  to- 
morrow, punctually  ;  so  get  your  littla  bag 
of  money,  and  your  nightcap  and  a  comb 
ready." 

"  But,"  the  jeweller  asked,  with  one  re- 
turning tinge  of  suspicion,  "  how  ai  j  we  to 
get  there,  Ben?" 

"Oh,"  replied  Mr.  Ben-Daoud,  coolly, 
"  we'll  have  a  shay." 

Sky  Fair ! — diamonds  ! — cheap  bifgains ! 
Acon-Virlaz  could  think  of  nothing  else  all 
the  time  of  supper,  which  was  sojietbine 
very  nice,   indeed,  in   the  fish  vr  «y,   and 


16 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


into  the  cooking  of  ■which  oil  entered 
laroiel}-.  He  was  so  pre-occiipiod,  that  Mrs. 
Virhiz  and  Miriam,  his  daughter,  who  had 
large  eyes  and  a  coral  necklace  (for  week 
days),  were  fain  to  ask  him  the  cause  there- 
of; and  he,  like  a  good  and  tender  husband 
and  father  as  he  was  (and  as  most  Hebrews, 
to  their  credit,  are),  told  them  of  Ben-Da- 
oud's  marvellous  story,  and  of  his  intended 
journey. 

The  next  morning,  as  the  clock  struck 
eight,  the  sound  of  wheels  was  heard  before 
Acon-Virlaz's  door,  in  the  Common  Hard  of 
Belleriport,  and  a  handful  of  gravel  was 
playfully  thrown  against  the  first-floor  win- 
dow by  the  hands  of  Ben-Daoud  of  West- 
hampton. 

But  it  needed  no  gravel,  no  noise  of 
wheels,  no  striking  of  clocks,  to  awaken 
Acon-Virlaz.  He  had  been  up  and  dressed 
since  six  o'clock  ;  and,  leaving  Mrs.  Virlaz 
peacefully  and  soundly  sleeping,  and  hastily 
swallowing  some  hot  coffee  prepared  by 
Barney  the  lad  (to  whom  he  issued  strict 
injunctions  concerning  the  conduct  of  the 
warehouse  during  the  day),  he  descended 
into  the  street,  and  was  affectionately  hailed 
by  his  fellow-voyager  to  Sky  Fair. 

The  seller  of  clocks  sat  in  the  "  shay"  of 
which  he  had  spoken  to  Acon-Virlaz.  It  was 
a  dusky  little  concern,  very  loose  on  its 
springs,  and  worn  and  rusty  in  its  gear. 
As  to  the  animal  that  drew^  it,  Mr.  Ben- 
Daoud  mentioned  by  the  way  that  it  was  a 
discount  pony,  having  been  taken  as  an 
equivalent  for  cash,  in  numberless  bills 
negotiated  in  the  Westhampton  garrison, 
and  had  probably  been  worth,  in  his  time, 
considerably  more  than  his  weight  in  gold. 

Said  pony,  if  he  was  a  rum  'un  to  look 
at— which,  indeed,  he  was,  being  hairy 
where  he  should  have  been  smooth,  and 
having  occasional  bald  places,  as  though  he 
were  in  the  habit  of  scratching  himself  with 
his  hoofs — which  hoofs,  coupled  with  his 
whity-brown  ankles,  gave  him  the  appear- 
ance of  having  indifferent  bluchers  and 
dirty  white  socks  on — was  a  good  'un  to  go. 
So  remarkably  good  was  he  in  going,  that 
he  soon  left  behind  the  High  street  of  Bel- 
leriport, where  the  shop-boys  were  sleepily 
taking  down  the  shutters  ;  where  house- 
maids were  painfully  elaborating  the  door- 
steps with  hearth-stones,  to  be  soiled  by  the 
first  visiters'  dirty  boots  (such  is  the  way  of 
the  world) ;  where  the  milkman  was  making 
his  early  morning  calls,  and  the  night  po- 
licemen were  going  home  from  duty ;  and 
the  third  lieutenant  of  the  Blunderbore — 
who  had  been  ashore  on  leave,  and  was  a 
little  shaken  about  the  eyes  still — was  has- 
tening to  catch  the  "  beef-boat '  to  convey 
him  to  his  ship.  Next,  the  town  itself  did 
the  pony  leave  behind  ;  the  outskirts,  the 
outlying  villages,  the  ruined  stocks  and 
deserted  pound,  the  Port-Admiral's  villa ; 


all  these  he  passed,  running  as  fast  as  a 
constable,  or  a  bill,  until  he  got  at  last  into 
a  broad  white  road,  which  Acon-Virlaz  never 
remembered  to  have  seen  before ;  a  road 
with  a  high  hedge  on  either  side,  and  to 
which  there  seemed  to  be  no  end. 

Mr.  Ben-Daoud  drove  the  pony  in  first- 
rate  style.  His  head  and  the  animal's 
wagged  in  concert ;  and  the  more  he  flou- 
rished his  whip,  the  more  the  pony  went ; 
and  both  seemed  to  like  it.  The  great  white 
road  sent  up  no  dust.  Its  stones,  if  stones 
it  had,  never  grated  nor  gave  out  a  sound 
beneath  the  wheels  of  the  "  shay."  It  was 
only  very  white  and  broad,  and  seemed  to 
have  no  end. 

Not  always  white,  however;  for,  as 
they  progressed,  it  turned  in  color  first 
milky-gray,  then  what  schoolboys  call,  in 
connection  with  the  fluid  served  out  to  them 
at  breakfast-time,  sky-blue ;  then  a  deep, 
vivid,  celestial  blue.  And  the  high  hedge 
on  either  side  melted  by  degrees  into  the 
same  hue ;  and  Acon-Virlaz  began  to  feel 
curiously  feathery  about  the  body,  and 
breezy  about  the  lungs.  He  caught  hold  of 
the  edge  of  the  "  shay,"  as  though  he  were 
afraid  of  falling  over.  He  shut  his  eyes 
from  time  to  time,  as  though  he  were  dizzy. 
He  began  to  fancy  that  he  was  in  the  sky. 

'•  There  is  Sky  Fair,  Mr.  Virlaz  !"  Ben- 
Daoud  suddenly  said,  pointing  ahead  with 
his  whip. 

At  that  moment,  doubtless  through  the 
superior  attractions  of  Sky  Fair,  the  dusky 
"  shay"  became  of  so  little  account  to 
Acon-Virlaz  as  to  disappear  entirely  from 
his  sight  and  mind,  though  he  had  left  his 
nightcap  and  comb  (his  little  bag  of  money 
was  safe  in  his  side-pocket,  trust  him)  on 
the  cushion.  At  the  same  moment,  it  must 
have  occurred  to  the  discount  pony  to  put 
himself  out  at  living  in  some  very  remote 
corner  of  creation,  for  he  vanished  alto- 
gether too  ;  and  Acon-Virlaz  almost  foncied 
that  he  saw  the  beast's  collar  fall  fifty  thou- 
sand fathoms  five,  true  as  a  plumb-line,  into 
space  ;  and  the  reins,  which  but  a  moment 
before  Ben-Daoud  had  held,  flutter  loosely 
away,  like  feathers. 

He  found  himself  treading  upon  a  hard, 
loose,  gritty  surface,  which,  on  looking 
down,  appeared  like  diamond-dust. 

"Which  it  is,"  Mr.  Ben-Daoud  explained, 
when  Acon-Virlaz  timidly  asked  him. 
"  Cheap  as  dirt  here  !  Capital  place  to 
bring  your  cast-iron  razors  to  be  sharpened, 
Mr.  V'lrlaz." 

The  jeweller  felt  inclined  for  the  mo- 
ment, to  resent  this  pleasantry  as  somewhat 
personal ;  for,  to  say  truth,  the  razors  in 
which  he  dealt  were  not  of  the  primest 
steel. 

There  was  a  great  light.  The  brightest 
sun-light  that  Acon-Virlaz  had  ever  seen, 
was  but  a  poor  farthing-candle  compared  to 


THE   SEVEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


1? 


this  resplendency.  There  was  a  great  gate 
throuf^h  which  they  had  to  pass  to  the  fair. 
The  gate  seemed  to  Acon-Virhiz  as  if  all 
the  jewelry  and  wrought  gold  in  the  world 
had  been  half-fused,  half-welded  together, 
into  one  monstrous  arabesque  or  trellis- 
work.  There  was  a  little  porter's  lodge  by 
the  gate,  and  a  cunning-looking  little  man 
by  it,  with  a  large  bunch  of  keys  at  his 
girdle.  The  thing  seemed  impossible  and 
ridiculous  ;  yet  Acon-Virlaz  could  not  help 
fancying  that  he  had  seen  the  cunning  little 
porter  before,  and,  of  all  places  in  the  world, 
in  London,  at  the  lock-up  house  in  Cursitor 
street,  Chancery  Lane,  kept  by  Mr.  Mephi- 
bosheth,  to  whose  red-headed  little  turnkey, 
Benjy,  he  bore  an  extraordinary  resem- 
blance. 

Who  is  to  tell  of  the  glories  of  Sky  Fair? 
Who,  indeed,  unless  he  had  a  harp  of  gold, 
dtrung  with  diamonds?  Who  is  to  tell  of 
the  long  lines  of  dazzlingly  white  booths, 
hundreds,  if  not  thousands,  if  not  millions, 
of  miles  in  extent,  where  jewels  of  surpass- 
ing size  and  purest  water  were  sold  by  the 
peck,  like  peas ;  by  the  pound,  like  spice- 
nuts  ;  by  the  gallon,  like  table-beer?  Who 
is  to  tell  of  the  swings,  the  round-abouts, 
the  throwing  of  sticks,  each  stick  sur- 
mounted by  a  diamond  as  big  as  an  ostrich- 
egg ;  the  live  armadillos,  with  their  jewelled 
scales;  the  scratchers,  corruscating  like  me- 
teors ;  the  gingerbread  kings  and  queens ; 
the  whole  fun  of  the  fair  one  dazzling, 
blinding,  radiating  mass  of  gold  and  gems ! 

It  was  not  Acon-Virlaz  who  could  tell 
much  about  these  wondrous  things  in  after 
days;  for  he  was  too  occupied  with  his  little 
bag  of  money  and  his  little  fairings.  Ben- 
I>aoud  had  spoken  the  truth ;  diamonds 
were  as  cheap  as  dirt  in  Sky  Fair.  In  an 
inconceivably  short  space  of  time,  and  by 
the  expenditure  of  a  few  half-pence,  the 
jeweller  had  laid  in  a  stock  of  precious 
stones.  But  he  was  not  satisfied  with  pock- 
ets-full, bags-full,  hats-full  of  unset,  uncut 
gems.  There  were  heaps  of  jewelled  trin- 
kets, chains,  bracelets,  rings,  piled  up  for 
sale.  lie  hankered  after  these.  He  bought 
heaps  of  golden  rings.  He  decorated  his 
wrists  and  ankles  with  bracelets  and  ban- 
gles enough  for  a  Bayadere.  He  might 
have  been  a  dog,  for  the  collars  round  his 
neck.  He  might  have  been  an  Ambrose 
Gwynnett  hung  in  chains,  for  the  profusion 
of  those  ornaments  in  gold  with  which  he 
loaded  himself.  And  then  he  went  in  for 
solid  services  of  plate,  and  might  have  been 
a  butler  or  a  philanthropist,  for  the  piles  of 
ewers,  salvers,  candelabra,  and  goblets, 
which  he  accumulated  in  his  hands,  under 
his  arms,  on  his  head.  More  gold !  more 
jewels  !     ^lore  !  more — 

Till  a  bell  began  to  ring, — a  loud,  clang- 
ing, voiceful  golden  bell,  carried  by  a 
shining  bellman,  and  the  clapper  of  which 


was  one  huge  diamond.  The  thousands  of 
people  who,  a  moment  before,  had  been 
purchasing  jewels  and  gold,  no  sooner  heard 
the  bell  than  they  began  to  scamper  like 
mad  towards  the  gate  ;  and,  at  the  same 
time,  Acon-Virlaz  heard  the  bellman  makingr 
proclama,tion  that  Sky  Fair  would  close  in 
ten  minutes  time,  and  that  every  man,  wo- 
man, or  child  found  within  the  precincts  of 
the  fair,  were  it  only  for  the  thousandth 
part  of  the  tithe  of  a  moment  after  the 
clock  had  struck  Twelve,  would  be  turned 
into  stone  for  a  hundred  years. 

Till  the  men,  women,  and  children  from 
every  nation  under  the  sun  (he  had  not  ob- 
served them  until  now,  so  intent  had  he 
been  on  his  purchases),  came  tearing  past 
him  ;  treading  on  his  toes,  bruising  his  ribs, 
jostling  him,  pushing  him  from  side  to  side, 
screaming  to  him  with  curses  to  move  on 
quicker,  or  to  get  out  of  the  way.  But,  he 
could  not  move  on  quicker.  His  gold  stuck 
to  him.  His  jewels  weighed  him  down.  In- 
visible clogs  seemed  to  attach  themselves  to 
his  feet.  He  kept  dropping  his  precious 
wares,  and,  for  the  life  of  him,  could  not 
refrain  from  stopping  to  pick  them  up  ;  in 
doing  which  he  dropped  more. 

Till  Mr.  Ben-Daoud  passed  him  with  a 
girdle  of  big  diamonds,  tied  round  his  waist 
in  a  blue  bird's-eye  handkerchief,  like  a 
professional  pedestrian. 

Till  the  great  bell  from  ringing  intermit- 
tent peals  kept  up  one  continuous  clang. 
Till  a  clock  above,  like  a  Catherine  wheel, 
which  Acon-A'^irlaz  had  not  before  noticed, 
began  to  let  off  rockets  of  minutes,  Roman 
candles  of  seconds.  Till  the  bellman's  pro- 
clamation merged  into  one  sustained  roar  of 
Oh  yes  !  Oh  yes  !  Till  the  red-headed  gate- 
keeper, who  was  like  Mr.  Mephibosheth'g 
turnkey,  gave  himself  up  to  an  unceasing 
scream  of  "  All  out !  All  out !"  whirling  his 
keys  above  his  head,  so  that  they  scattered 
sparks  and  flakes  of  fire  all  around. 

Till  fifty  thousand  other  bells  began  to 
clang,  and  fifty  million  other  voices  to 
scream.  Till  all  at  once  there  was  silence, 
and  the  clock  began  to  strike  slowly  sadly. 
One,  two,  three,  four — to  Twelve. 

Acon-Virlaz  was  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
gate  when  the  fatal  clock  began  to  strike. 
By  a  desperate  effort  he  cast  aside  the  load 
of  plate  which  impeded  his  movements,  lie 
tore  off  liis  diamond-laden  coat ;  he  cast  his 
waistcoat  to  the  winds,  aud  plunged  madly 
into  the  throng  that  blocked  up  the  en- 
trance. 

To  find  himself  too  late.  The  great  gates 
closed  with  a  heavy  shock,  and  Acon-Virlaz 
reeled  away  from  them  in  the  rebound, 
bruised,  bleeding,  and  despairing.  He  was 
too  late.  Sky  Fair  was  closed,  and  he 
was  to  be  turned  into  stone  for  a  hundred 
years.. 

The  red-headed  doorkeeper  (who  by  the 


18 


DICKENS'   NEW  STORIES. 


way  squinted  abominably)  was  leaning 
with  his  back  to  the  gate,  drumming  with 
his  keys  on  the  bars. 

"  It's  a  beautiful  day  to  be  indoors,"  he 
said,  consolingly.  "  It's  bitter  cold  out- 
side." 

Acon-A^irlaz  shuddered.  He  felt  his  heart 
turning  into  stone  ■within  him.  He  fell  on 
his  knees  before  the  red-headed  doorkeeper  ; 
and  with  tears,  sobs,  groans,  entreated  him 
to  open  the  gate.  He  oifered  him  riches,  he 
offered  him  the  hand  of  Miriam  his  large- 
eyed  daughter  :  all  for  one  turn  of  the  key 
in  the  lock  of  the  gate  of  Sky  Fair. 

"  Can't  be  done,"  the  doorkeeper  re- 
marked, shaking  his  head.  "  Till  Sky  Fair 
opens  again,  you  can't  be  let  out." 

Again  and  again  did  the  jeweller  entreat, 
until  he  at  last  appeared  to  make  an  impres- 
sion on  the  red-headed  janitor. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  can  do  for 
you,  old  gentleman,"  he  said :  "  I  daren't 
open  the  gate  for  my  life  ;  but  there's  a  win- 
dow in  my  lodge ;  and  if  you  choose  to  take 
your  chance  of  jumping  out  of  it  (it  isn't  far 
to  fall)  you  can." 

Acon-Virlaz,  uttering  a  confused  medley 
of  thanks,  was  about  to  rush  into  the  lodge, 
when  the  gatekeeper  laid  his  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

"  By  the  way,  mister,"  he  said,  "  you 
may  as  well  give  me  that  big  signet  ring  on 
your  finger,  as  a  token  to  remind  you  of  all 
the  fine  things  you  promised  me  when  I 
come  your  way." 

The  jeweller  hastily  plucked  off  the  de- 
sired trinket,  and  gave  it  to  his  red-headed 


deliverer.  Then,  he  darted  into  the  narrow, 
dark  porter's  lodge,  overturned  a  round 
table,  on  which  was  the  doorkeeper's  dinner 
(it  smelt  very  much  like  liver  and  bacon), 
and  clambered  up  to  a  very  tall,  narrow 
window.  He  leaned  his  hands  on  the  sill, 
and  thrusting  his  head  out  to  see  how  far 
he  had  to  jump,  descried,  immediately  be- 
neath him,  the  tasty  shay,  the  discount 
pony,  and  Mr.  Ben-l3aoud  with  a  lighted 
cigar  in  his  mouth  and  the  reins  in  his  hand, 
just  ready  to  start.  "  Hold  hard!"  screamed 
Acon-Virlaz.  Hold  hard !  Ben,  my  dear 
friend,  my  old  friend :  bold  hard,  and  take 
me  in!" 

Mr.  Ben-Daoud's  reply  was  concise  but 
conclusive  : 

"  Go  to  Bermondsey,"  he  said,  and  whip- 
ped his  pony. 

The  miserable  man  groaned  aloud  in  de- 
spair ;  for  the  voice  of  the  doorkeeper  urged 
him  to  be  quick  about  it,  if  he  was  going  to 
jump  ;  and  he  felt,  not  only  his  heart,  but 
his  limbs,  becoming  cold  and  stony.  Shut- 
ting his  eyes  and  clenching  his  teeth,  he 
jumped  and  fell,  down,  down  into  space. 
According  to  his  own  calculations,  he  must 
have  fallen  at  least  sixty  thousand  miles  and 
for  six  months  in  succession  ;  but,  according 
to  Mrs.  Acon-Virlaz  and  Miriam  his  large- 
eyed  daughter,  he  only  fell  from  his  arm- 
chair into  the  fire-place,  striking  his  head 
against  the  tongs  as  he  fell  ;  having  come 
home  a  little  while  before,  with  no  such 
thing  about  him  as  his  beautiful  seal-ring  ; 
and  being  slightly  the  worse  for  liquor,  not 
to  say  drunk. 


■»^^v^^^-^<^#^^^»**' ■ 


THE    THIRD    POOR    TRAVELLER. 


You  wait  my  story,  next  1     Ah,  well  I 
Such  marvels  as  you  two  have  told 
You  must  not  think  that  I  can  tell ; 
For  I  am  only  twelve  years  old. 
Ere  long  I  hope  I  shall  have  been 
On  my  first  voyage,  and  wonders  seen. 
Some  princess  I  may  help  to  free 
From  pirates  on  a  far-ofl'  sea ; 
Or,  on  some  desert  isle  be  left. 
Of  friends  and  shipmates  all  bereft 

For  the  first  time  I  venture  forth. 
From  our  blue  mountains  of  the  north. 
My  kinsman  kept  the  lodge  that  stood 
Guarding  the  entrance  near  the  wood. 
By  the  stone  gateway  gray  and  old. 
With  quaint  devices  carved  about. 
And  broken  shields ;  while  dragons  bold 
Glared  on  the  conmion  world  without ; 
And  the  long  trembling  ivy  spray 


Half  hid  the  centuries'  decay. 

In  solitude  and  silence  grand 

The  castle  towered  above  the  land 

The  castle  of  the  Earl,  whose  name 

(Wrapped  in  old  bloody  legends)  came 

Down  through  the  times  when  Truth  and  Right 

Bent  down  to  armed  Pride  and  Might. 

He  owned  the  country  far  and  near; 

And,  for  some  weeks  in  every  year, 

(When  the  brown  leaves  were  falling  fast 

And  the  long,  lingering  autumn  passed), 

He  would  come  down  to  hunt  the  deer. 

With  hound  and  horse  in  splendid  pride. 

The  story  lasts  the  live-long  year. 

The  peasant's  winter  evening  filla 

When  he  is  gone  and  they  abide 

In  the  lone  quiet  of  their  hills. 

I  longed,  too,  for  the  happy  night. 
When  all  with  torches  flaring  bright 


THE   SEVEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


19 


The  crowding  villagers  would  stand, 

A  patient,  eager,  waiting  band, 

Until  the  signal  ran  like  flame 

"  They  come  !"  and,  slackening  speed,  they  came. 

Outriders  first,  in  pomp  and  state, 

Pranced  on  their  horses  thro'  the  gate ; 

Then  the  four  steeds  as  black  as  night, 

All  decked  with  trappings  blue  and  white, 

Drew  thro'  the  crowd  that  opened  wide, 

The  Earl  and  Countess  side  by  side. 

The  stern  grave  Earl,  with  formal  smile 

And  glistening  eyes  and  stately  pride, 

Could  ne'er  my  childish  gaze  beguile 

From  the  fair  presence  by  his  side, 

The  lady's  soft  sad  glance,  her  eyes 

(Like  stars  that  shone  in  summer  skies). 

Her  pure  white  face  so  calmly  bent, 

With  gentle  greetings  round  her  sent ; 

Her  look,  that  always  seemed  to  gaze 

Where  the  blue  past  had  closed  again 

Over  some  happy  shipwrecked  days, 

With  all  their  freight  of  love  and  pain. 

She  did  not  even  seem  to  see 

The  httle  lord  upon  her  knee, 

And  yet  he  was  like  angel  fair, 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  golden  hair, 

That  fell  on  shoulders  white  as  snow. 

But  the  blue  eyes  that  shone  below 

His  clustering  rings  of  auburn  curls, 

Were  not  his  mother's,  but  the  Earl's. 

I  feared  the  Earl,  so  cold  and  grim, 
I  never  dared  be  seen  by  him. 
When  thro'  our  gate  he  used  to  ride. 
My  kinsman  Walter  bade  me  hide  ; 
He  said  he  was  so  stern. 
So,  when  the  hunt  came  past  our  way 
I  always  hasten 'd  to  obey, 
Until  I  heard  the  bugles  play 
The  notes  of  their  return. 
But  she — my  very  heart-strings  stir 
Whene'er  I  speak  or  think  of  her — 
The  whole  wide  world  could  never  see 
A  noble  lady  such  as  she. 
So  full  of  angel  charity. 

Strange  things  of  her  our  neighbors  told 

In  the  long  winter  evenings  cold, 

Around  the  fire.     They  would  draw  near 

And  speak  half-whispering,  as  in  fear ; 

As  if  they  thought  the  Earl  could  hear 

Their  treason  'gainst  his  name. 

They  thought  the  story  that  his  pride 

Had  stooped  to  wed  a  low-born  bride, 

A  stain  upon  his  fame. 

Some  said  'twas  false;  there  could  not  be 

Such  blot  on  his  nobility  : 

But  others  vowed  that  they  had  heard 

The  actual  story  word  for  word, 

From  one  who  well  my  lady  knew, 

And  had  declared  the  story  true. 

In  a  far  village,  little  known. 

She  dwelt — so  ran  the  tale — alone. 

A  widowed  bride,  yet,  oh  !  so  bright. 

Shone  through  the  mist  of  grief,  her  charms ; 

They  said  it  was  the  loveliest  sight, — 

She  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 


The  Earl,  one  summer  morning,  rode 
By  the  sea-shore  where  she  abode ; 
Again  he  came, — the  vision  sweet 
Drew  him  reluctant  to  her  feet. 
Fierce  must  the  struggle  in  his  heart 
Have  been,  between  his  love  and  pride, 
Until  he  chose  that  wondrous  part 
To  ask  her  to  become  his  bride. 
Yet,  ere  his  noble  name  she  bore. 
He  made  her  vow  that  nevermore 
She  would  behold  her  child  again 
But  hide  his  name  and  hers  from  men. 
The  trembling  promise  duly  spoken, 
All  links  of  the  low  past  were  broken, 
And  she  arose  to  take  her  stand 
Amid  the  nobles  of  the  land. 

Then  all  would  wonder, — could  it  be 
That  one  so  lowly  born  as  she. 
Raised  to  such  height  of  bliss,  should  seem 
Still  living  in  some  weary  dream  1 
'Tis  true  she  bore  with  calmest  grace 
The  honours  of  her  lofty  place. 
Yet  never  smiled,  in  peace  or  joy, 
Not  even  to  greet  her  princely  boy. 
She  heard,  with  face  of  white  despair, 
The  cannon  thunder  through  the  air. 
That  she  had  given  the  Earl  an  heir. 
Nay,  even  more  (they  whispered  low. 
As  if  they  scarce  durst  fancy  so). 
That,  through  her  lofty  wedded  life. 
No  word,  no  tone,  betrayed  the  wife. 
Her  look  seemed  ever  in  the  past : 
Never  to  him  it  grew  more  sweet ; 
The  self-same  weary  glance  she  cast 
Upon  the  greyhound  at  her  feet, 
As  upon  him,  who  bade  her  claim 
The  crowning  honor  of  his  name. 

This  gossip,  if  old  Walter  heard, 
He  checked  it  with  a  scornful  word : 
I  never  durst  such  tales  repeat ; 
He  was  too  serious  and  discreet 
To  speak  of  what  his  lord  might  do. 
Besides,  he  loved  my  lady  too : 
And  many  a  time,  I  recollect. 
They  were  together  in  the  wood  ; 
He,  with  an  air  of  grave  respect; 
And  earnest  look,  uncovered  stood. 
And  though  their  speech  I  never  heard, 
(Save  now  and  then  a  louder  word,) 
I  saw  he  spake  as  none  but  one 
She  loved  and  trusted  durst  have  done; 
For  oft  I  watched  them  in  the  shade 
That  the  close  forest  branches  made, 
Till  slanting  golden  sunbeams  came 
And  smote  the  tir-trces  into  flame, 
A  radiant  glory  round  her  lit. 
Then  down  her  white  robe  seemed  to  flit, 
Gilding  the  brown  leaves  on  the  ground. 
And  all  the  feathery  ferns  around. 
While  by  some  gloomy  pine  she  leant 
.\nd  he  in  earnest  talk  would  stand, 
I  saw  the  tear-drops,  as  she  bent. 
Fall  on  the  flowers  in  her  hand. 
Strange  as  it  seemed  and  seems  to  be 
That  one  so  sad,  so  cold  as  she. 
Could  love  a  little  child  like  me ; 


20 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


Yet  80  it  was,  I  never  heard 
Such  tender  words  as  she  would  say, 
Or  niurnuus,  sweeter  than  a  word, 
Would  breathe  upon  me  as  I  lay. 
While  I,  in  smiling  joy,  would  rest. 
For  hours,  my  head  upon  her  breast. 
Our  neighbors  said  that  none  could  see 
In  me  the  common  childish  charms, 
(So  grave  and  still  I  used  to  be,) 
And  yet  she  held  me  in  her  arms, 
In  a  fond  clasp,  so  close,  so  tight, — 
I  often  dlream  of  it  at  night. 

She  bade  me  tell  her  all — no  other, 

My  childish  thoughts  e'er  cared  to  know  ; 

For  I — I  never  knew  my  mother ; 

I  was  an  orphan  long  ago. 

And  I  conld  all  my  fancies  pour, 

That  gentle  loving  face  before. 

She  liked  to  hear  me  tell  her  all ; 

How  that  day  I  had  climbed  the  tree, 

To  make  the  largest  fir-cones  fall ; 

And  how  one  day  I  hoped  to  be 

A  sailor  on  the  deep  blue  sea — 

She  loved  to  hear  it  all ! 

Then  wondrous  things  she  used  to  tell, 

Of  the  strange  dreams  that  she  had  known. 

I  used  to  love  to  hear  them  well ; 

If  only  for  her  sweet  low  tone, 

Sometimes  so  sad,  although  I  knew 

That  such  things  never  could  be  true. 

One  da}'  she  told  me  such  a  tale 

It  made  me  grow  all  cold  and  pale, 

The  fearful  thing  she  told  ! 

Of  a  poor  woman  mad  and  wild 

Who  coined  the  life-blood  of  her  child. 

Who  tempted  by  a  fiend,  had  sold 

The  heart  out  of  her  breast  for  gold. 

But,  when  she  saw  me  frightened  seem, 

She  smiled,  and  said  it  was  a  dream. 

How  kind,  how  fair  she  was ;  how  good 

I  cannot  tell  you.     If  I  could 

You,  too,  would  love  her.     The  mere  thought 

Of  her  great  love  for  me  has  brought 

Tears  in  my  eyes ;  though  far  away, 

It  seems  as  it  were  yesterday. 

And  just  as  when  I  look  on  high 

Through  the  blue  silence  of  the  sky, 

Fresh  stars  shine  out,  and  more  and  more. 

Where  I  could  see  so  few  before. 

So,  the  more  steadily  I  gaze 

Upon  those  far-off  misty  days. 

Fresh  words,  fresh  tones,  fresh  memories  start 

Before  my  ej-es  and  in  my  heart. 

I  can  remember  how  one  day 

(Talking  in  silly  childish  way) 

I  said  how  happy  I  should  be 

If  I  were  like  her  son — as  fair. 

With  just  such  bright  blue  eyes  as  he. 

And  such  long  locks  of  golden  hair. 

A  dark  smile  on  her  pale  face  broke. 

And  in  strange  solemn  words  she  spoke : 

"  My  own,  my  darling  one — no,  no  ! 
I  love  you,  far,  far  better  so. 
I  would  not  change  the  look  you  bear. 
Or  one  wave  of  your  dark  brown  hair. 
The  mere  glance  of  your  sunny  eyes. 


Deep  in  my  deepest  soul  I  prize 
Above  that  baby  fair  ! 
Not  one  of  all  the  Earl's  proud  line 
In  beauty  ever  matched  with  thine. 
And  'tis  by  thy  dark  locks  thou  art 
Bound  even  faster  round  my  heart. 
And  made  more  wholly  mine  !" 
And  then  she  paused,  and  weeping  said 
"  You  are  like  one  who  now  is  dead — 
Who  sleeps  in  a  far  distant  grave. 

0  may  God  grant  that  you  may  be 
As  noble  and  as  good  as  he, 

As  gentle  and  as  brave  !" 
Then  in  my  childish  way  I  cried, 
"  The  one  you  tell  me  of  who  diea, 
Was  he  as  noble  as  the  Earl  V 

1  see  her  red  lips  scornful  curl, 
I  feel  her  hold  my  hand  again 

So  tightly  that  I  shrank  in  pain — 

I  seem  to  hear  her  say, 

"  He  whom  I  tell  you  of,  who  died. 

He  was  so  noble  and  so  gay. 

So  generous  and  so  brave, 

That  the  proud  Earl  by  his  dear  side 

Would  look  a  craven  slave." 

She  paused  ;  then,  with  a  quivering  sigh, 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  my  brow  : 

"  Live  like  him,  darling,  and  so  die. 

Remember  that  he  tells  you  now, 

True  peace,  real  honor,  and  content, 

In  cheerful  pious  toil  abide ; 

For  gold  and  splendor  are  but  sent 

To  curse  our  vanity  and  pride." 

One  day  some  childish  fever  pain 
Burnt  in  my  veins  and  fired  my  brain- 
Moaning,  I  turned  from  side  to  side  ; 
And,  sobbing  in  my  bed,  I  cried. 
Till  night  in  calm  and  darkness  crept 
Around  me,  and  at  last  I  slept. 
When  suddenly  I  woke  to  see 
The  lady  bending  over  me. 
The  drops  of  cold  November  rain 
Were  falling  from  her  long,  damp  hair; 
Her  anxious  eyes  were  dim  with  pain  ; 
Yet  she  looked  wondrous  fair. 
Arrayed  for  some  great  feast  she  came, 
With  stones  that  shone  and  burnt  like  flame. 
Wound  round  her  neck,  like  some  bright  snake, 
And  set  like  stars  within  her  hair. 
They  sparkled  so,  they  seemed  to  make 
A  glory  everywhere. 
I  felt  her  tears  upon  my  face. 
Her  kisses  on  my  eyes ; 
And  a  strange  thought  I  could  not  trace 
I  felt  within  my  heart  arise ; 
And,  half  in  feverish  pain,  I  said  ; 
"  O  if  my  mother  were  not  dead  !" 
And  Walter  bade  me  sleep  ;  but  she 
Said,  "  Is  it  not  the  same  to  thee 
That  I  watch  by  thy  bed  V 
I  answered  her,  "  I  love  you,  too  ; 
But  it  can  never  be  the  same  ; 
She  was  no  Countess  like  to  you, 
Nor  wore  such  sparkling  stones  of  flame." 

0  the  wild  look  of  fear  and  dread  ! 
The  cry  she  gave  of  bitter  woe  ! 

1  often  wonder  what  I  said 


THE   SETEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


21 


To  make  her  moan  and  shudder  so. 
Througli  the  long  night  she  tended  me 
With  such  sweet  care  and  charity. 
But  I  should  weary  you  to  teli 
All  that  I  know  and  love  so  well ; 
Yet  one  night  more  stands  out  alone 
With  a  sad  sweetness  all  its  own. 

The  wind  blew  loud  that  dreary  night. 
Its  wailing  voice  I  well  remember  ; 
The  stars  shone  out  so  large  and  bright 
Upon  the  frosty  fir-boughs  white  : 
That  dreary  night  of  cold  December 
I  saw  old  Walter  silent  stand, 
Watching  the  soft  last  flakes  of  snow 
With  looks  I  could  not  understand 
Of  strange  perplexity  and  woe. 
At  last  he  turned  and  took  my  hand 
And  said  the  Countess  just  had  sent 
To  bid  us  come  ;  for  she  would  fain 
See  me  once  more,  before  she  went 
Away, — never  to  come  again. 
We  came  in  silence  thro'  the  wood 
(Our  footfall  was  the  only  sound). 
To  where  the  great  white  castle  stood. 
With  darkness  shadowing  it  around. 
Breathless,  we  trod  with  cautious  care 
Up  the  great  echoing  marble  stair ; 
Trembling,  by  Walter's  tiand  I  held, 
Scared  by  the  splendors  I  beheld  ; 
Now  thinking,  Should  the  Earl  appear  ! 
Now  looking  up  with  giddy  fear 
To  the  dim  vaulted  roof,  that  spread 
Its  gloomy  arches  overhead. 
Long  corridors  we  softly  past, 
(My  heart  was  beating  loud  and  fast) 
And  reached  the  Lady's  room  at  last. 
A  strange  faint  odor  seemed  to  weigh 
Upon  the  dim  and  darkened  air. 
One  shaded  lamp,  with  softened  ray, 
Scarce  showed  the  gloomy  splendor  there. 
The  dull  red  brands  were  burning  low  : 
And  yet  a  fitful  gleam  of  light, 
Would  now  and  then,  with  sudden  glow. 
Start  forth,  then  sink  again  in  night. 
I  gazed  around,  yet  half  in  fear, 
Tdl  Walter  told  me  to  draw  near. 
And  in  the  strange  and  flickering  light, 
Towards  the  Lady's  bed  I  crept. 
All  folded  round  with  snowy  white, 
She  lay  (one  would  have  said  she  slept). 
So  still  the  look  of  that  white  face. 
It  seemed  as  it  were  carved  in  stone. 
I  paused  before  I  dared  to  place, 
Within  her  cold  white  hand  my  own. 
But,  with  a  smile  of  sweet  surprise, 
She  turned  to  me  her  dreamy  eyes ; 
And  slowly,  as  if  life  were  pain, 
She  drew  me  in  her  arms  to  lie  : 
She  strove  to  speak,  and  strove  in  vain ; 


Each  breath  was  like  a  long-drawn  sigh. 

The  throbs  that  seemed  to  shake  her  breast, 

The  trembling  clasp,  so  loose,  and  weak, 

At  last  grew  calmer,  and  at  rest ; 

And  then  she  strove  once  more  to  speak  : 

"  My  God,  I  thank  thee,  that  my  pain 

Of  day  by  day  and  year  by  year, 

Has  not  been  suffered  all  in  vain, 

And  I  may  die  while  he  is  near. 

I  will  not  fear  but  that  Thy  grace 

Has  swept  away  my  sin  and  woe, 

And  sent  this  little  angel  face. 

In  my  last  hour  to  tell  me  so." 

(And  here  her  voice  grew  faint  and  low) 

"  My  child  where'er  thy  life  may  go. 

To  know  that  thou  art  brave  and  true. 

Will  pierce  the  highest  heavens  through. 

And  even  there  my  soul  shall  be 

More  joyful  for  this  thought  of  thee." 

She  folded  her  white  hands,  and  stayed 

All  cold  and  silently  she  lay : 

I  knelt  beside  the  bed,  and  prayed 

The  prayer  she  used  to  make  me  say. 

I  said  it  many  times,  and  then 

She  did  not  move,  but  seemed  to  be 

In  a  deep  sleep,  nor  stirred  again. 

N*  sound  stirred  in  the  silent  room, 

Or  broke  the  dim  and  solemn  gloom. 

Save  when  the  brands  that  burnt  so  low 

With  noisy  fitful  gleam  of  light. 

Would  spread  around  a  sudden  glow, 

Then  sink  in  silence  and  in  night. 

How  long  I  stood  I  do  not  know  : 

At  last  poor  Walter  came,  and  said 

(So  sadly)  that  we  now  must  go. 

And  whispered  she  we  loved  was  dead, 

He  bade  me  kiss  her  face  once  more, 

Then  led  me  sobbing  to  the  door. 

I  scarcely  knew  what  dying  meant, 

Yet  a  strange  grief,  before  unknown, 

Weighed  on  my  spirit  as  we  went 

And  left  her  lying  all  alone. 

We  went  to  the  far  North  once  more, 
To  seek  the  well  remembered  home. 
Where  my  poor  kinsman  dwelt  before, 
Whence  now  he  was  too  old  to  roam : 
And  there  six  happy  years  we  past, 
Happy  and  peaceful  till  the  last  : 
When  poor  old  Walter  died,  and  he 
Bleesed  me  and  said  I  now  might  be 
A  sailor  on  the  deep  blue  sea. 
And  so  I  go  ;  and  yet  in  spite 
Of  all  the  joys  I  long  to  know  ; 
Though  I  look  onward  with  dehght, 
With  something  of  regret  I  go, 
And  young  or  old,  on  land  or  sea, 
One  guiding  memory  I  shall  take 
Of  what  she  prayed  that  I  might  be, 
And  what  I  will  be  for  her  sake ! 


THE  FOURTH  POOR  TRAVELLER. 


Now,  first  of  all,  I  should  like  to  know 
what  you  mean  by  a  story  ?  You  mean 
what  other  people  do  ?  And  pray  what  is 
that  ■?  You  know,  but  you  can't  exactly 
tell.  I  thought  80  !  In  the  course  of  a 
pretty  long  legal  experience,  I  have  never 
yet  met  with  a  party  out  of  my  late  profes- 
sion, who  was  capable  of  giving  a  correct 
definition  uf  anything. 

To  judge  by  your  looks,  I  suspect  you  are 
amused  at  my  talking  of  any  such  thing 
ever  having  belonged  to  me  as  a  profession. 
Ha  !  ha  !  Here  I  am,  with  my  toes  out  of 
my  bouts,  without  a  shirt  to  my  back  or  a 
rap  in  my  pocket,  except  the  fourpence  I 
get  out  of  this  charity  (against  the  present 
administration  of  which  I  protest — but  that's 
not  the  point),  and  yet  not  two  years  ago  I 
was  an  attorney  in  large  practice  in  a  burst- 
ing big  country  town.  I  had  a  house  in  the 
High  Street.  Such  a  giant  of  a  house  that 
you  had  to  get  up  six  steps  to  knock  at  the 
front  door.  I  had  a  footman  to  drive  tramps 
like  me  ofi'  all  or  any  one  of  my  six  hearth- 
stoned  steps,  if  they  dared  sit  down  on  all 
or  any  one  of  my  six  hearth-stoned  steps ; 
a  footman  who  would  give  me  into  custody 
now  if  I  tried  to  shake  hands  with  him  in 
the  streets  I  decline  to  answer  your  ques- 
tions if  you  ask  me  any.  How  I  got  into 
trouble,  and  dropped  down  to  where  I  am 
now,  is  my  secret. 

Now,  I  absolutely  decline  to  tell  you  a 
etory.  But,  though  I  wont  tell  a  story,  I 
am  ready  to  make  a  statement.  A  statement 
is  a  matter  of  fact;  therefore  the  exact  op- 
posite of  a  story,  which  is  a  matter  of  fiction. 
vVhat  I  am  now  going  to  tell  you  really 
happened  to  me. 

I  served  my  time — never  mind  in  whose 
office  ;  and  I  started  in  business  for  myself, 
in  one  of  our  English  country  towns — I 
decline  stating  which.  I  hadn't  a  quarter 
of  the  capital  I  ought  to  have  had  to  begin 
with  ;  and  my  friends  in  the  neighborhood 
were  poor  and  useless  enough,  with  one 
exception.  That  exception  was  Mr.  Frank 
Gatlifi'e,  son  of  Mr.  Gatliffe,  member  for  the 
county,  the  richest  man  and  the  proudest 
for  many  a  mile  round  about  our  parts. 
Stop  a  bit !  you  man  in  the  corner  there  ; 
you  needn't  pert  up  and  look  knowing.  You 
wont  trace  any  particulars  by  the  name  of 
GatlifTe.  I'm  not  bound  to  commit  myself 
or  anybody  else  by  mentioning  names.  I 
have  given  you  the  first  that  came  into  my 
bead. 

(22) 


Well !  Mr.  Frank  was  a  staunch  friend 
of  mine,  and  ready  to  recommend  me  when- 
ever he  got  the  chance.  I  had  given  him  a 
little  timely  help — for  a  consideration,  of 
course — in  borrowing  money  at  a  fair  rate 
of  interest;  in  fact,  I  had  saved  him  from 
the  Jews.  The  money  was  borrowed  while 
Mr.  Frank  was  at  college.  He  came  back 
from  college,  and  stopped  at  home  a  little 
while ;  and  then  there  got  spread  about  all 
our  neighborhood,  a  report  that  he  had  fallen 
in  love,  as  the  saying  is,  with  his  young  sis- 
ter's governess,  and  that  his  mind  was  made 
up  to  marry  her.  "What !  you're  at  it  again, 
my  man  in  the  corner !  You  want  to  know 
her  name,  don't  you !  What  do  you  think 
of  Smith  ? 

Speaking  as  a  lawyer,  I  consider  Report, 
in  a  general  way,  to  be  a  fool  and  a  liar. 
But  in  this  case  report  turned  out  to  be 
something  very  different.  Mr.  Frank  told 
me  he  was  really  in  love,  and  said  upon  his 
honor  (an  absurd  expression  which  young 
chaps  of  his  age  are  always  using)  he  was 
determined  to  marry  Smith  the  governess — 
the  sweet  darling  girl,  as  he  called  her ;  but 
I'm  not  sentimental,  and  /  call  her  Smith 
the  governess  (with  an  eye,  of  course,  to 
refreshing  the  meninry  of  my  friend  in  the 
corner).  Mr.  Frank's  father,  being  as  proud 
as  Lucifer,  said  "  No"  as  to  marrying  the 
governess,  when  Mr.  Frank  wanted  him  to 
say  "Y'es."  He  was  a  man  of  business, 
was  old  Gatliffe,  and  he  took  the  proper 
business  course.  He  sent  the  governess 
away  with  a  first-rate  character  and  a  spank- 
ing present ;  and  then  he  looked  about  him 
to  get  something  for  Mr.  Frank  to  do.  While 
he  was  looking  about,  Mr.  Frank  b)lted  to 
London  after  the  governess,  who  had  nobody 
alive  belonging  to  her  to  go  to,  but  an  aunt — 
her  father's  sister.  The  aunt  refuses  to  let 
Mr.  Frank  in  without  the  squire's  permis- 
sion. Mr.  Frank  writes  to  his  father,  and 
says  he  will  marry  the  girl  as  soon  as  he  is 
of  age,  or  shoot  himself.  Up  to  town  comea 
the  squire,  and  his  wife,  and  his  daughter  ; 
and  a  lot  of  sentimentality,  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  material  to  the  present 
statement,  takes  place  among  them  ;  and 
the  upshot  of  it  is  that  old  Gatliffe  is  forced 
into  withdrawing  the  word  No,  and  sub- 
stituting the  word  Yes. 

I  don't  believe  he  would  ever  have  done 
it,  though,  but  for  one  locky  peculiarity  in 
the  case.  The  governess's  father  was  a  man 
of  good  family — pretty  nigh  as  good  aa  Gat- 


THE   SEVEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


23 


liffe's  own.  lie  had  been  in  the  army  ;  had 
suld  out,  set  up  as  a  wine  merchant — failed 
— died  :  ditto  his  wife,  as  to  the  dying  part 
of  it.  No  relation,  in  fact,  left  for  the  squire 
to  make  inquiries  about  but  the  father's  sis- 
ter ;  who  had  behaved,  as  old  Gatliffe  said, 
like  a  thorough-bred  gentlewoman  in  shut- 
ting tlie  door  against  Mr.  Frank  in  the  first 
instance.  So,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  things 
were  at  last  made  up  pleasant  enough.  The 
time  was  fixed  for  the  wedding,  and  an  an- 
nouncement about  it — Marriage  in  High  Life 
and  all  that — put  into  the  county  paper. 
There  was  a  regular  biography,  besides,  of 
the  governess's  father,  so  as  to  stop  people 
from  talking ;  a  great  flourish  about  his 
pedigree,  and  a  long  account  of  his  services 
in  the  army ;  but  not  a  word,  mind  ye,  of 
his  havingturned  wine  merchant  afterwards. 
Oh,  no — not  a  word  about  that !  I  knew  it, 
though,  for  Mr.  Frank  told  me.  lie  hadn't 
a  bit  of  pride  about  him.  He  introduced 
me  to  his  future  wife  one  day  when  I  met 
them  out  walking,  and  asked  me  if  I  did 
not  think  he  was  a  lucky  fellow.  I  don't 
mind  admitting  that  I  did,  and  that  I  told 
him  so.  Ah  !  but  she  was  one  of  my  sort, 
was  that  governess.  Stood,  to  the  best  of 
my  recollection  five  foot  four.  Good  lissome 
figure,  that  looked  as  if  it  had  never  been 
boxed  up  in  a  pair  of  stays.  Eyes  that  made 
me  feel  as  if  I  was  under  a  pretty  stiff  cross- 
examination  the  moment  she  looked  at  me. 
Fine  red,  fresh,  kiss-and-come-again  sort  of 

lips.     Cheeks  and  complexion .  No,  my 

man  in  the  corner,  you  wouldn't  identify 
her  by  her  cheeks  and  complexion,  if  I 
drew  you  a  picture  of  them  this  very  mo- 
ment. She  has  had  a  family  of  children 
since  the  time  I'm  talking  of;  and  her 
cheeks  are  a  trifle  fatter  and  her  complexion 
is  a  shade  or  two  redder  now,  than  when  I 
first  met  her  out  walking  with  Mr.  Frank. 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  on  a 
Wednesday.  I  decline  mentioning  the  year 
or  the  month.  I  had  started  as  an  attorney 
on  my  own  account — say  six  weeks,  more 
or  less,  and  was  sitting  alone  in  my  oflice  on 
the  Monday  morning  before  the  wedding- 
day,  trying  to  see  my  way  clear  before  me 
and  not  succeeding  particularly  well,  when 
Mr.  Frank  suddenly  bursts  in,  as  white  as 
any  ghost  that  ever  was  painted,  and  says 
he's  got  the  most  dreadful  case  for  me  to 
advise  on,  and  not  an  hour  to  lose  in  acting 
on  my  advice. 

"  Is  this  in  the  way  of  business,  Mr. 
Frank?"  says  I,  stopping  him  just  as  he 
was  beginning  to  get  sentimental.  "  Yes 
or  no,  Mr.  Frank  ?"  rapping  my  new  office 
paper-knife  on  the  table  to  pull  him  up 
ehort  all  the  sooner. 

"  My  dear  fellow" — he  was  alwaj's  fami- 
liar with  me — "  it's  in  the  way  of  business, 

certainly ;  but  friendship " 

I  was  obliged  to  pull  him  up  short  again 


and  regularly  examine  him  as  if  he  had 
been  in  the  witness-box,  or  he  would  have 
kept  me  talking  to  no  purpose  half  the  day. 
"  Now,  Mr.  Frank,"  said  I,  "  I  can't  have 
any  sentimentality  mixed  up  with  business 
matters.  You  please  to  stop  talking  and  let 
mo  ask  questions.  Answer  in  the  fewest 
words  you  can  use.  Nod  when  nodding 
will  do  instead  of  words." 

I  fixed  him  with  my  eye  for  about  three 
seconds,  as  he  sat  groaning  and  wriggling 
in  his  chair.  When  I'd  done  fixing  him,  I 
gave  another  rap  with  my  paper-knife  on  to 
the  table  to  startle  him  up  a  bit.  Then  I 
went  on. 

"  From  what  you  have  been  stating  up  to 
the  present  time,"  says  I,  "  I  gather  that 
you  are  in  a  scrape  which  is  likely  to  inter- 
fere seriously  with  your  marriage  on  Wed- 
nesday ?"  (He  nodded,  and  I  cut  in  again 
before  he  could  say  a  word).  "  The  scrape 
afiects  the  young  lady  you  are  about  to 
marry,  and  goes  back  to  the  period  of  a  cer- 
tain transaction  in  which  her  late  father  was 
engaged  some  years  ago  ?"  (He  nods,  and  I 
cut  in  once  more.)  "  There  is  a  party  who 
turned  up  after  seeing  the  announcement  of 
your  marriage  in  the  paper,  who  is  cogni- 
sant of  what  he  oughtn't  to  know,  and  who 
is  prepared  to  use  his  knowledge  of  the 
same,  to  the  prejudice  of  the  young  lady  and 
of  your  marriage,  unless  he  receives  a  sum 
of  money  to  quiet  him?  Very  well.  Now, 
first  of  all,  Mr.  Frank,  state  what  you  have 
been  told  by  the  young  lady  herself  about 
the  transaction  of  her  late  father.  How 
did  you  first  come  to  have  any  knowledge 
of  it?" 

"  She  was  talking  to  me  about  her  father 
one  day,  so  tenderly  and  prettily,  that  she 
quite  excited  my  interest  about  him,"  be- 
gins Mr.  Frank  ;  "  and  I  asked  her,  among 
other  things,  what  had  occasioned  his  death. 
She  said  she  believed  it  was  distress  of 
mind  in  the  first  instance  ;  and  added  that 
this  distress  was  connected  with  a  shocking 
secret,  which  she  and  her  mother  had  kept 
from  everybody,  but  which  she  could  not 
keep  from  me,  because  she  was  determined 
to  begin  her  married  life  by  having  no  se- 
crets from  her  husband."  Here  Mr.  Frank 
began  to  get  sentimental  again  ;  and  I  pull- 
ed him  up  short  once  more  with  the  papeiv 
knife. 

"  She  told  me,"  Mr.  Frank  went  on,  "  that 
the  great  mistake  of  her  father's  life  wag 
his  selling  out  of  the  army  and  taking  to  the 
wine  trade.  He  had  no  talent  for  business ; 
things  went  wrong  with  him  from  the  first. 
His  clerk,  it  was  strongly  suspected,  cheated 
him " 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  says  I.  *'  What  was  that 
suspected  clerk's  name?" 

"  Davager,"  says  he. 

"  Davager,"  says  I,  making  a  note  of  it 
"  Go  on,  Mr.  Frank." 


24 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


"  His  affairs  got  more  and  more  entan- 
gled," 8a3'8  Mr.  Frank  ;  "  he  was  pressed 
for  money  in  all  directions  ;  bankruptcy,  and 
consequent  dishonor  (as  he  considered  it) 
stared  him  in  the  foce.  His  mind  was  so 
affected  by  his  troubles  that  both  his  wife 
and  dau»;hter,  towards  the  last,  considered 
him  to  be  hardly  responsible  for  his  own 
acts.      In    this    state    of    desperation    and 

misery,  he "     Here   Mr.  Frank  began 

to  hesitate. 

We  have  two  ways  in  the  law,  of  draw- 
ing evidence  off  nice  and  clear  from  an  un- 
willing client  or  witness.  We  give  him  a 
flight  or  treat  him  to  a  joke.  I  treated  Mr. 
Frank  to  a  joke. 

"  Ah  I"  says  I.  "  I  know  what  he  did. 
He  had  a  signature  to  write  ;  and,  by  the 
most  natural  mistake  in  the  world,  he  wrote 
another  gentleman's  name  instead  of  his 
own— eh  ?" 

"  It  was  to  a  bill."  says  Mr.  Frank,  look- 
ing very  crestfiillen,  instead  of  taking  the 
joke.  "His  principal  creditor  wouldn't 
wait  till  he  could  raise  the  money,  or  the 
greater  part  of  it.  But  he  was  resolved,  if 
he  sold  off  everything,  to  get  the  amount  and 
repay " 

"  Of  course  \"  says  I.  "  Drop  that.  The 
forgery  was  discovered.     When?" 

"  Before  even  the  first  attempt  was  made  to 
negotiate  the  bill.  He  had  done  the  whole 
thing  in  the  most  absurdly  and  innocently 
wrong  way.  The  person  whose  name  he 
had  used  was  a  staunch  friend  of  his,  and  a 
relation  of  his  wife's  :  a  good  man  as  well  as 
a  rich  one.  He  had  influence  with  the  chief 
creditor,  and  he  used  it  nobly.  He  had  a 
real  affection  for  the  unfortunate  man's 
wife,  and  he  proved  it  generously." 

"  Come  to  the  point,"  says  I.  "  What  did 
he  do  ?  In  a  business  way,  what  did  he 
do?" 

"He  put  the  false  bill  into  the  fire,  drew 
a  bill  of  his  own  to  replace  it,  and  then — 
only  then — told  my  dear  girl  and  her 
mother  all  that  had  happened.  Can  you 
imagine  anything  nobler  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Frank. 

"  Speaking  in  my  professional  capacity,  I 
can't  imagine  anything  greener  !"  says  I. 
"  Where  was  the  father  ?     Off,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Ill  in  bed,"  said  Mr.  Frank,  coloring. 
"  But,  he  mustered  strength  enough  to 
write  a  contrite  and  grateful  letter  the  same 
day,  promising  to  prove  himself  worthy  of 
the  noble  moderation  and  forgiveness  ex- 
tended to  him,  by  selling  off  everything  he 
possessed  to  repay  his  money  debt.  He  did 
sell  off  everything,  down  to  some  old  family 

Eictures  that  were  heirlooms;  down  to  the 
ttle  plate  he  had ;  down  to  the  very  tables 
and  chairs  that  furnished  his  drawing  room. 
Every  farthing  of  the  debt  was  paid  ;  and 
he  was  left  to  begin  the  world  again,  with 
the  kindest  promises  of  help  from  the  gener- 


ous man  who  had  forgiven  him.  It  was  too 
late.  His  crime  of  one  rash  moment- 
atoned  for  though  it  had  been — preyed  upon 
his  mind.  He  became  possessed  with  the  idea 
that  he  had  lowered  himself  forever  in  the 
estimation  of  his  wife  and  daughter, 
and " 

"  He  died,"  I  cut  in.  "  Yes,  yes,  we  know 
that.  Let's  go  back  for  a  minute  to  the  con- 
trite and  grateful  letter  that  he  wrote.  My 
experience  in  the  law,  Mr.  Frank,  has  con- 
vinced me  that  if  everybody  burnt  every- 
body else's  letters,  half  the  Courts  of 
Justice  in  this  country  might  shut  up  shop. 
Do  you  happen  to  know  whether  the  letter 
we  are  now  speaking  of  contained  anything 
like  an  avowal  or  confession  of  the  forgery  ?" 

"  Of  course  it  did,"  says  he.  "  Could  the 
writer  express  his  contrition  properly  with- 
out making  some  such  confession  ?" 

"  Quite  easy,  if  he  had  been  a  lawyer," 
says  I.  "  But  never  mind  that;  I'm  going 
to  make  a  guess, — a  desperate  guess,  mind. 
Should  I  be  altogether  in  error,"  says  I,  "if 
I  thought  that  this  letter  had  been  stolen  ; 
and  that  the  fingers  of  Mr.  Davager,  of  sus- 
picious commercial  celebrity,  might  possibly 
be  the  fingers  which  took  it?"  says  I. 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  tried  to  make 
you  understand,"  cried  Mr.  Frank. 

"  How  did  he  communicate  that  interest- 
ing fact  to  you  ?" 

"  He  has  not  ventured  into  my  presence. 
The  scoundrel  actually  had  the  audacity — " 

"  Aha  !"  says  I.  "  The  young  lady  her- 
self!    Sharp  practitioner,  Mr.  Davager." 

"  Early  this  morning,  when  she  was  walk- 
ing alone  in  the  shrubbery,"  Mr.  Frank  goes 
on,  "  he  had  the  assurance  to  approach  her, 
and  to  say  that  he  had  been  watching  his 
opportunity  of  getting  a  private  interview  for 
days  past.  He  then  showed  her — actually 
showed  her — her  unfortunate  father's  letter  ; 
put  into  her  hands  another  letter  directed  to 
me;  bowed,  and  walked  off;  leaving  her 
half  dead  with  astonishment  and  terror  !" 

"  It  was  much  better  for  you  that  you 
were  not  there,"  says  I.  "  Have  you  got 
that  other  letter?" 

He  handed  it  to  me.  It  was  so  extremely 
humorous  and  short,  that  I  remember  every 
word  of  it  at  this  distance  of  time.  It  began 
in  this  way : 

"  To  Francis  Gatliffe,  Esq.,  Jun.— Sir.— I 
have  an  extremely  curious  autograph  letter 
to  sell.  The  price  is  a  Five  hundred  pound 
note.  The  young  lady  to  whom  you  are  to 
be  married  on  Wednesday  will  inform  you 
of  the  nature  of  the  letter,  and  the  genuine- 
ness of  the  autograph.  If  you  refuse  to  deal, 
I  shall  send  a  copy  to  the  local  paper,  an(J 
shall  wait  on  your  highly  respected  father 
with  the  original  curiosity,  on  the  afternoon 
of  Tuesday  next.  Having  come  down  here 
on  family  business,  I  have  put  up  at  the 


THE   SEVEN   POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


25 


family  hotel — being  to  be  heard  of  at  the 
Gatliffe  Arms. 

Your  very  obedient  servant, 

"  Alfred  Davager." 

"  A  clever  fellow,  that,"  saya  I,  putting 
the  letter  into  my  private  drawer. 

"  Clever  I"  cries  Mr.  Frank,  "  he  ought  to 
be  horsewhipped  within  an  inch  of  his  life. 
I  would  have  done  it  myself,  but  she  made 
me  promise,  before  she  told  me  a  word  of 
the  matter,  to  come  straight  to  you." 

"  That  was  one  of  the  wisest  promises  you 
ever  made,"  says  L  "  We  can't  afford  to 
bully  this  fellow,  whatever  else  we  may  do 
with  him.  Don't  think  I  am  saying  any- 
thing libellous  against  your  excellent  father's 
character  when  I  assert  that  if  he  saw  the 
letter  he  would  insist  on  your  marriage  being 
put  off,  at  the  very  least  ?" 

"  Feeling  as  my  father  does  about  my 
marriage,  he  would  insist  on  its  being  drop- 
ped altogether,  if  he  saw  this  letter,"  says 
Mr.  Frank,  with  a  groan.  "  But  even  that 
is  not  the  worst  of  it.  The  generous,  noble 
girl  herself  says,  that  if  the  letter  appears 
in  the  paper,  with  all  the  unanswerable 
comments  this  scoundrel  would  be  sure  to 
add  to  it,  she  would  rather  die  than  hold 
me  to  my  engagement — even  if  my  father 
would  let  me  keep  it."  He  was  a  weak 
young  fellow,  and  ridiculously  fond  of  her. 
I  brought  him  back  to  business  with  another 
rap  of  the  paper-knife. 

*'  Hold  up,  Mr.  Frank,"  says  I.  "I  have 
a  question  or  two  more.  Did  you  think  of 
asking  the  young  lady  whether,  to  the  best 
of  her  knowledge,  this  infernal  letter  was 
the  i)u\y  written  evidence  of  the  forgery  now 
in  existence?" 

"  Yes,  I  did  think  directly  of  asking  her 
that,  says  he;  "and  she  told  me  she  was 
quite  certain  that  there  was  no  written  evi- 
dence of  the  forgery,  except  that  one  letter." 

"  Will  you  give  Mr.  Davager  his  price  for 
it  ?"  says  I. 

"  Yes,"  says  Mr.  Frank,  as  quick  as  light- 
ning. 

"  Mr.  Frank,"  says  I,  "  you  came  here  to 
get  my  help  and  ad\ice  in  this  extremely 
ticklish  business,  and  you  are  ready,  as  I 
know,  without  asking,  to  remunerate  me  for 
all  and  any  of  my  services  at  the  usual  pro- 
fessional rate.  Now,  I've  made  up  my  mind 
to  act  boldly — desperately,  if  you  like — on 
the  hit  or  miss — win-all-or-lose-all  principle 
— in  dealing  with  this  matter.  Here  is  my 
proposal.  I'm  going  to  try  if  I  can't  do  Mr. 
Davager  out  of  his  letter.  If  I  don't  succeed 
before  to-morrow  afternoon,  you  hand  him 
the  money,  and  I  charge  you  nothing  for 
professional  services.  If  I  do  succeed,  I 
hand  you  the  letter  instead  of  Mr.  Davager; 
and  you  give  me  the  money,  instead  of  giv- 
ing it  to  him.  It's  a  precious  risk  for  me, 
but  I'm  ready  to  run  it.  Y'^ou  must  pay  your 


five  hundred  any  way.  What  do  you  say  to 
my  plan  ?  Is  it.  Yes — Mr.  Frank — or.  No  V 

"  Hang  your  questions  !"  cries  Mr.  Frank, 
jumping  up  ;  "  you  know  it's  Y'es,  ten  thou- 
sand times  over.  Only  you  earn  the  money 
and " 

"  And  you  will  be  too  glad  to  give  it  to 
me.  Very  good.  Now  go  home.  Comfort 
the  young  lady — don't  let  Mr.  Davager  so 
much  as  set  eyes  on  you — keep  quiet — leave 
everything  to  me — and  feel  as  certain  as  you 
please  that  all  the  letters  in  the  world  can't 
stop  your  being  married  on  Wednesday." 
With  these  words  I  hustled  him  off  out  of 
the  office ;  for  I  wanted  to  be  left  alone  to 
make  my  mind  up  about  what  I  should  do. 

The  first  thing,  of  course,  was  to  have  a 
look  at  the  enemy.  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Davager, 
telling  him  that  I  was  privately  appointed 
to  arrange  the  little  business-matter  between 
himself  and  "another  party"  (no  names!) 
on  friendly  terms ;  and  begging  him  to  call 
on  me  at  his  earliest  convenience.  At  the 
very  beginning  of  the  case,  Mr.  Davager 
bothered  me.  His  answer  was  that  it  would 
not  be  convenient  to  him  to  call  till  l^etween 
six  and  seven  in  the  evening.  In  this  way, 
you  see,  he  contrived  to  make  me  lose  seve- 
ral precious  hours,  at  a  time  when  minutes 
almost  were  of  importance.  I  had  nothing 
for  it,  but  to  be  patient,  and  to  give  certain 
instructions,  before  Mr.  Davager  came,  tc 
my  boy  Tom. 

There  was  never  such  a  sharp  boy  of  four- 
teen before,  and  there  never  will  be  again, 
as  my  boy,  Tom.  A  spy  to  look  after  Mr. 
Davager  was,  of  course,  the  first  requisite  in 
a  case  of  this  kind ;  and  Tom  was  the 
smallest,  quickest,  quietest,  sharpest,  stealth- 
iest  little  snake  of  a  chap  that  ever  dogged 
a  gentleman's  steps  and  kept  cleverly  out  of 
range  of  a  gentleman's  eyes.  I  settled  it 
with  the  boy  that  he  was  not  to  show  at  all, 
when  Mr.  Davager  came  ;  and  that  he  was 
to  wait  to  hear  me  ring  the  bell  when  Mr. 
Davager  left.  If  I  rang  twice  he  was  to 
show  the  gentleman  out.  If  I  rang  once,  he 
was  to  keep  out  of  the  way  and  follow  the 
gentleman  wherever  he  went,  till  he  got 
back  to  the  inn.  Those  were  the  only  pre- 
parations I  could  make  to  begin  with  ;  being 
obliged  to  wait,  and  let  myself  be  guided  by 
what  turned  up. 

About  a  quarter  to  seven  my  gentleman 
came.  In  the  profession  of  the  law  we  get 
somehow  quite  remarkably  mixed  up  with 
ugly  people,  blackguard  people,  and  dirty 
people.  But  far  away  the  ugliest  and  dirtiest 
blackguard  I  ever  saw  in  my  life  was  Mr. 
Alfred  Davager.  He  had  greasy  white  hair 
and  a  mottled  face.  He  was  low  in  the  fore- 
head, fat  in  the  stomach,  hoarse  in  the 
voice,  and  weak  in  the  legs.  Both  his  eyes 
were  bloodshot,  and  one  was  fixed  in  his 
head.  He  smelt  of  spirits,  and  carried  a 
toothpick  in  his  mouth.    "  How  are  you  ? 


26 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


I've  just  (lone  dinner,"  says  he — and  he 
\i}i;hts  a  cij^ar,  sits  down  with  his  legs 
erossed,  and  winks  at  ine. 

I  tried  at  first  to  take  the  measure  of  him 
in  a  wheedlinf;,  confidential  way  ;  Init  it  was 
no  good.  I  asked  him  in  a  facetious  smiling 
manner,  how  he  iiad  got  hold  of  the  letter. 
He  only  told  me  in  answer  that  he  had  been 
in  tiie  contid(!ntial  employment  of  the  writer 
of  it.  and  that  he  hacl  always  been  famous 
since  infancy,  for  a  shar[)  eye  to  his  own  in- 
terests. I  paid  him  some  compliments;  but 
he  was  not  to  be  flattered.  I  tried  to  make 
him  lose  his  temper;  but  he  kept  it  in  spite 
of  mo.  It  ended  in  his  driving  me  to  my 
last  resource — I  made  an  attempt  to  frighten 
him. 

"  Before  we  say  a  word  about  the  money," 
I  began,  "  let  me  put  a  case,  Mr.  Davager. 
The  pull  you  have  on  Mr.  Francis  Gatliffe 
is,  that  you  can  hinder  his  marriage  on 
Wednesday.  Now,  suppose  I  have  got  a 
magistrate's  warrant  to  apprehend  you  in 
my  pocket  ?  Suppose  I  have  a  constable  to 
execute  it  in  the  next  room?  Suppose  I 
bring  you  up  to-morrow — the  day  before  the 
marriage — charge  you  only  generally  with 
an  attempt  to  extort  money,  and  apply  for 
a  day's  remand  to  complete  the  case?  Sup- 
pose, as  a  suspicious  stranger,  you  can't  get 
bail  in  this  town  ?     Suppose " 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  says  Mr.  Davager  ;  "  Sup- 
pose I  should  not  be  the  greenest  fool  that 
ever  stood  in  shoes  ?  Suppose  I  should  not 
carry  the  letter  about  me?  Suppose  I 
should  have  given  a  certain  envelope  to  a 
certain  frend  of  mine  in  a  certain  place  in 
this  town?  Suppose  the  letter  should  be 
inside  that  envelope,  directt^d  to  old  Gatliffe, 
side  by  side  with  a  copy  of  the  letter,  direct- 
ed to  the  editor  of  the  local  paper  ?  Suppose 
my  friend  should  be  instructed  to  open  the 
envelope,  and  take  the  letters  to  their  right 
addresses,  if  I  don't  appear  to  claim  them 
from  him  this  evening?  In  short,  my  dear 
sir,  suppose  you  were  born  yesterday,  and 
suppose  I  wasn't?" — says  Mr.  Davager,  and 
winks  at  me  again. 

He  didn't  take  me  by  surprise,  for  I  never 
expected  that  he  had  the  letter  about  him. 
I  made  a  pretence  of  being  very  much  taken 
aback,  and  of  being  quite  ready  to  give  in. 
We  settled  our  business  about  delivering  the 
letter  and  handing  over  the  money,  in  no 
time.  I  was  to  draw  out  a  document,  which 
he  was  to  sign.  He  knew  the  document  was 
stuff  and  nonsense  just  as  well  as  1  did  ;  and 
told  me  I  was  only  proposing  it  to  swell  my 
client's  bill.  Sharp  as  he  was,  he  was  wrong 
there.  The  document  was  not  to  be  drawn 
out  to  gain  money  from  Mr.  Frank,  but  to 
gain  time  from  Mr.  Davager.  It  strved  me 
as  an  excuse  to  put  off  the  payment  of  the 
five  hundred  pounds  till  three  o'clock  on  the 
Tuesday  afternoon.  The  Tuesday  morning 
Mr.  Davager  said  he   should  devote  to  his 


amusement,  and  asked  me  what  sights  were 
to  be  seen  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  town. 
When  I  had  told  him,  he  pitched  his  tooth- 
pick into  my  grate — yawned — and  went  out. 

I  rang  the  bell  once  ;  waited  till  he  had 
passed  the  window ;  and  then  looked  after 
Tom.  There  was  my  jewel  of  a  boy  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street,  just  setting  his 
top  going  in  the  most  playful  manner  pos- 
sil)le.  Mr.  Davag(!r  walked  away  up  the 
street,  towards  the  market-place.  Tom 
whipped  his  top  up  the  street  towards  the 
market-place  too. 

In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  came  back, 
with  all  his  evidence  collected  in  a  beauti- 
fully clear  and  compact  state.  Mr.  Davager 
had  walked  to  a  public  house,  just  outside 
the  town,  in  a  lane  leading  to  the  high  road. 
On  a  bench  outside  the  public-house  there 
sat  a  man  smoking.  He  said  "All  right?" 
and  gave  a  letter  to  Mr.  I)avager,  who 
answered  "All  right,"  and  walked  back  to 
the  inn.  In  the  hall  he  ordered  hot  rum 
and  water,  cigars,  slippers,  and  a  fire  to  be 
lit  in  his  room.  After  that,  he  went  up 
stairs,  and  Tom  came  away. 

I  now  saw  my  road  clear  before  me — not 
very  far  on,  but  still  clear.  I  had  housed 
the  letter,  in  all  probability  for  that  night, 
at  the  Gatliffe  Arms.  After  tipping  Tom,  I 
gave  him  directions  to  play  aliout  the  door 
of  the  inn,  and  refresh  himself,  when  he  was 
tired,  at  the  tart-shop  opposite — eating  as 
much  as  he  pleased,  on  the  understanding 
that  he  crammed  all  the  time  with  his  eye 
on  the  window.  If  Mr.  Davager  went  out, 
or  Mr.  Davager's  friend  called  on  him,  Tom 
was  to  let  me  know.  He  was  also  to  take  a 
little  note  from  me  to  the  head  chamber- 
maid— an  old  friend  of  mine — asking  her  to 
step  over  to  my  office,  on  a  private  matter 
of  business,  as  soon  as  her  work  was  done 
for  that  night.  After  settling  these  little 
matters,  having  half  an  hour  to  spare,  I 
turned  to  and  did  myself  a  bloater  at  the 
office-fire,  and  had  a  drop  of  gin  and  water 
hot,  and  felt  comparatively  happy. 

When  the  head  chambermaid  came,  it 
turned  out,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  that 
Mr.  Davager  had  offended  her.  I  no  sooner 
mentioned  him  than  she  flew  into  a  passion  ; 
and  when  I  added,  by  way  of  clinching  the 
matter,  that  I  was  retained  to  defend  the 
interests  of  a  very  beautiful  and  deserving 
young  lady  (name  not  referred  to,  of  course) 
against  the  most  cruel  underhand  treachery 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Davager,  the  head  cham- 
bermaid was  ready  to  go  any  lengths  that 
she  could  safely,  to  serve  my  cause.  In  few 
words,  I  discovered  that  Boots  was  to  call 
Mr.  Davager,  at  eight  the  next  morning,  and 
was  to  take  his  clothes  down  stairs  to  brush 
as  usual.  If  Mr.  D.,  had  not  emptied  his 
own  pockets  overnight,  we  arranged  that 
Boots  was  to  forget  to  empty  them  for  him, 
and  was   to  bring  the  clothes  down  staira 


THE  SEVEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


27 


just  as  he  found  them.  If  Mr.  D.'s  pockets 
were  emptied,  then,  of  course,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  transfer  the  searching  process 
t(j  Mr.  D.'s  room.  Under  any  circumstances, 
1  was  certain  of  the  head  chambermaid  ; 
and  under  any  circumstances  also,  the  head 
chambermaid  was  certain  of  Boots. 

[  waited  till  Tom  came  home,  looking  very 
pufly  and  bilious  about  the  face;  but  as  to 
his  intellects,  if  anything,  rather  sharper 
than  ever.  His  report  was  uncommonly 
short  and  pleasant.  The  inn  was  shutting 
up  ;  Mr.  Davager  was  going  to  bed  in  rather 
a  drunken  condition;  Mr.  Davager's  friend 
had  never  appeared.  I  sent  Tom  (properly 
instructed  about  keeping  our  man  in  view 
all  the  next  morning)  to  his  shake-down  be- 
hind the  office  desk,  where  I  heard  him  hic- 
cupping half  the  night,  as  boys  will  when 
over-excited  and  too  full  of  tarts. 

At  half-past  seven  next  morning,  I  slipped 
quietW  into  Boot's  pantry.  Down  came  the 
elothes.  No  pockets  in  trousers.  Waistcoat 
pockets  empty.  Coat  pockets  with  some- 
thing in  them.  First,  handkerchief;  second- 
ly, bunch  of  keys ;  thirdly,  cigar-case ; 
fourthly,  pocket-book.  Of  course  I  wasn't 
such  a  fool  as  to  expect  to  find  a  letter  there ; 
but  I  opened  the  pocket-book  with  a  certain 
curiosity,  notwithstanding. 

Nothing  in  the  two  pockets  of  the  book  but 
some  old  advertisements  cut  out  of  news- 
papers, a  lock  of  hair  tied  round  with  a  dirty 
bit  of  ribbon,  a  circular  letter  about  a  loan 
society,  and  some  copies  of  verses  not  likely 
to  suit  any  company  that  was  not  of  an  ex- 
tremely wicked  description.  On  the  leaves  of 
the  pocket-book,  people's  addresses  scrawled 
in  pencil,  and  bets  jotted  down  in  red  ink. 
On  one  leaf,  by  itself,  this  queer  inscription  : 
"  Mem.  5  Along.  4  Across."  I  under- 
stood everything  but  those  words  and  figures; 
BO  of  course  I  copied  them  out  into  my  own 
book.  Then  I  waited  in  the  pantry,  till  Boots 
had  brushed  the  clothes  and  had  taken  them 
up  stairs.  His  report,  when  he  came  down 
was,  that  Mr.  D.  had  asked  if  it  was  a  fine 
morning.  Being  told  that  it  was,  he  had 
ordered  breakfast  at  nine,  and  a  saddle- 
horse  to  be  at  the  door  at  ten,  to  take  him  to 
Grimwith  Abbey — one  of  the  sights  in  our 
neighborhood  which  I  had  told  him  of  the 
evening  before. 

"  I'll  be  here,  coming  in  by  the  back  way 
at  half-past  ten,"  says  I  to  the  head  chamber- 
maid, "to  take  the  responsibility  of  making 
Mr.  Davager's  bed  off  your  hands  for  this 
morning  only.  I  want  to  hire  Sam  for  the 
morning.  Put  it  down  in  the  order-book 
that  he's  to  be  brought  round  to  my  office 
at  ten." 

Sam  was  a  pony,  and  I'd  made  up  my 
mind  that  it  would  be  beneficial  to  Tom's 
health,  after  the  tarts,  if  he  took  a  constitu- 
tional airing  on  a  nice  hard  saddle  in  the 
direction  of  Grimwith  Abbey. 


"Anything  else,"  says  the  head  chamber- 
maid. 

"  Only  ono  more  favor,"  says  I.  "  Would 
my  boy  Tom  be  very  much  in  the  way 
if  he  came,  from  now  till  ten,  to  help  with 
the  boots  and  shoes,  and  stood  at  his  work 
close  by  this  window  which  looks  out  on  the 
staircase  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  says  the  head  chambermaid. 

"  Thank  you,"  says  I ;  and  stepped  back 
to  my  office  directly. 

When  I  had  sent  Tom  off  to  help  with 
the  boots  and  shoes,  I  reviewed  the  whole 
case  exactly  as  it  stood  at  that  time.  There 
were  three  things  Mr.  Davager  might  do 
with  the  letter.  He  might  give  it  to  his 
friend  again  before  ten — in  which  case,  Tom 
would  most  likely  see  the  said  friend,  on  the 
stairs.  He  might  take  it  to  his  friend,  or  to 
some  other  friend,  after  ten — in  which  case, 
Tom  was  ready  to  follow  him  on  Sam  the 
pony.  And,  lastly,  he  might  leave  it  hidden 
somewhere  in  his  room  at  the  inn — in  which 
case,  I  was  all  ready  for  him  with  a 
search-warrant  of  my  own  granting,  under 
favor  always  of  my  friend  the  head  cham- 
bermaid. So  far  I  had  my  business  arrange- 
ments all  gathered  up  nice  and  compact  in 
my  own  hands.  Only  two  things  bothered 
me  :  the  terrible  shortness  of  the  time  at  my 
disposal,  in  case  I  failed  in  my  first  experi- 
ments for  getting  hold  of  the  letter,  and  that 
queer  inscription  which  I  had  copied  out  of 
the  pocket-book. 

"  Mem.  5  Along.  4  Across."  It  was  the 
measurement,  most  likely,  of  something,  and 
he  was  afraid  of  forgetting  it ;  therefore,  it 
was  something  important.  Query — some- 
thing about  himself!  Say  "5" '(inches) 
"  along" — he  doesn't  wear  a  wig.  Say  "  5" 
(feet)  "along" — it  can't  be  coat,  waistcoat, 
trowsers,  or  underclothing.  Say  "  5"  (yards) 
"along" — it  can't  be  anything  about  him- 
self, unless  he  wears  round  his  body  the  rope 
that  he's  sure  to  be  hanged  with  one  of  these 
days.  Then  it  is  not  something  about  him- 
self. What  do  I  know  of  that  is  important 
to  him  besides  ?  I  know  of  nothing  but  the 
letter.  Can  the  memorandum  be  connected 
with  that?  Say,  yes.  What  do  "5  along" 
and  "  4  across"  mean  then  ?  The  measure- 
ment of  something  he  carries  about  with 
him  ? — or  the  measurement  of  something 
in  his  room  ?  I  could  get  pretty  satisfac- 
torily to  myself  as  far  as  that ;  but  I  could 
get  no  further. 

Tom  came  back  to  the  office,  and  reported 
him  mounted  for  his  ride.  His  friend  had 
never  appeared.  I  sent  the  boy  off,  with  his 
proper  instructions,  on  Sam's  back — wrote 
an  encouraging  letter  to  Mr.  Frank  to  keep 
him  quiet — then  slipped  into  the  inn  by  the 
back  way  a  little  before  half-past  ten.  Th<» 
head  chambermaid  gave  me  a  signal  when 
the  landing  was  clear.  I  got  into  his  room 
without  a  soul  but  her  seeing  me,  and  locked 


28 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


the  door  immorliatoly.  Tho  case  was  to  a 
certain  extent,  sinijilificd  now.  Either  Mr. 
Davager  had  ridden  out  with  the  letter  about 
him,  or  he  had  left  it  in  some  safe  hiding- 
place  in  his  room.  I  suspected  it  to  be  in 
bis  room,  for  a  reason  that  will  a  little 
astonish  you — his  trunk,  his  dressing-case, 
and  all  the  drawers  and  cupboards  were  left 
open.  I  knew  my  customer,  and  I  thought 
this  extraordinary  carelessness  on  his  part 
rather  suspicious. 

Mr.  Davagcr  had  taken  one  of  the  best 
bedrooms  at  the  Gatliffe  Arms.  Floor  car- 
peted all  over,  walls  beautifully  papered, 
lour-poster,  and  general  furniture  first-rate. 
I  searched,  to  begin  with,  on  the  usual  plan, 
examining  everything  in  every  possible 
way,  and  taking  more  than  an  hour  about 
it.  No  discovery.  Then  I  palled  out  a 
carpenter's  rule  which  I  had  brought  with 
me.  Was  there  anything  in  the  room 
which — either  in  inches,  feet,  or  yards — an- 
swered to  "5  along"  and  "4  across?" 
Nothing.  I  put  the  rule  back  in  my  pocket 
— measurement  was  no  good  evidently.  Was 
there  anything  in  the  room  that  would  count 
up  to  5  one  way  and  4  another,  seeing  that 
nothing  would  measure  up  to  it?  I  had  got 
obstinately  persuaded  by  this  time  that  the 
letter  must  be  in  the  room — principally  be- 
cause of  the  trouble  I  had  had  in  looking  after 
it.  And  persuading  myself  of  that,  I  took 
it  into  my  head  next,  just  as  obstinately, 
that  "  5  along"  and  "  4  across"  must  be  the 
right  clue  to  find  the  letter  by — principally 
because  I  hadn't  left  myself,  after  all  my 
searching  and  thinking,  even  so  much  as 
the  vestige  of  another  guide  to  go  by.  "  5 
along" — where  could  I  count  five  along  the 
room,  in  any  part  of  it? 

Not  on  the  paper.  The  pattern  there  was 
pillars  of  trellis  work  and  flowers,  enclos- 
ing a  plain  green  ground — only  four  pillars 
along  the  wall  and  only  two  across.  The 
furniture  ?  There  was  not  five  chairs,  or 
five  separate  pieces  of  any  furniture  in  the 
room  altogether.  The  fringes  that  hung 
from  the  cornice  of  the  bed  ?  Plenty  of 
them  at  any  rate  !  Up  I  jumped  on  the 
counterpane,  with  my  penknife  in  my  hand. 
Every  way  that  "  5  along"  and  "  4  across" 
could,  be  reckoned  on  those  unlucky  fringes, 
I  reckoned  on  them — probed  with  my  pen- 
knife— scratched  with  my  nails — crushed 
with  my  fingers.  No  use  ;  not  a  sign  of  a 
letter  ;  and  the  time  was  getting  on — oh. 
Lord  J  how  the  time  did  get  on  in  Mr. 
Davager's  room  that  morning. 

I  jumped  down  from  the  bed,  so  despe- 
rate at  my  ill-luck  that  I  hardly  cared 
whether  anybody  heard  me  or  not.  Quite 
a  little  cloud  of  dust  arose  at  my  feet  as 
they  thumped  on  the  carpet.  "  IlaJlo !" 
thought  I ;  "  my  friend  the  head  chamber- 
maid takes  it  easy  here.  Nice  state  for 
a  carpet  to  be  in,  in  one  of  the  best  bed- 


rooms at  the  Gatliffe  Arms."  Carpet !  I 
had  been  jumping  up  on  the  bed,  and 
staring  up  at  the  walls,  but  I  had  never  so 
much  as  given  a  glance  down  at  the  carpet. 
Think  of  me  pretending  to  be  a  lawyer,  and 
not  knowing  how  to  look  low  enough  ? 

The  carpet  I  It  had  been  a  stout  article 
in  its  time  ;  had  evidently  begun  in  a  draw- 
ing-room ;  then  descended  to  a  coffee-room  ; 
then  gone  upstairs  altogether  to  a  bedroom. 
The  ground  was  brown,  and  pattern  was 
bunches  of  leaves  and  roses  speckled  over 
the  ground  at  regular  distances.  I  reckoned 
up  the  bunches.  Ten  along  the  room — eight 
across  it.  When  I  had  stepped  out  five  one 
way  and  four  the  other,  and  was  down  on  my 
knees  on  the  centre  bunch,  as  true  as  I  sit 
on  this  bench,  I  could  hear  my  own  heart 
beating  so  loud  that  it  quite  frightened  me. 

I  looked  narrowly  all  over  the  bunch,  and 
I  felt  all  over  it  with  the  ends  of  my  fingers  ; 
and  nothing  came  of  that.  Then  I  scraped  it 
over  slowly  and  gently  with  my  nails.  My 
second  finger-oail  stuck  a  little  at  one  place. 
I  parted  the  pile  of  the  carpet  over  that 
place,  and  saw  a  thin  slit,  which  had  been 
hidden  by  the  pile  being  smoothed  over  it — 
a  slit  about  half  an  inch  long,  with  a  little 
end  of  brown  thread,  exactly  the  colour  of 
the  carpet-ground,  sticking  out  about  a  quar- 
ter of  an  inch  from  the  middle  of  it.  Just 
as  I  laid  hold  of  the  thread  gently,  I  heard 
a  footstep  outside  the  door. 

It  was  only  the  head  chambermaid, 
"  Havn't  you  done  yet?"  she  whispers. 

"  Give  me  two  minutes,"  says  I  ;  "  and 
don't  let  anybody  come  near  the  door — 
whatever  you  do  don't  let  anybody  startle 
me  again  by  coming  near  the  door." 

I  took  a  little  pull  at  the  thread,  and  heard 
something  rustle.  I  took  a  longer  pull,  and 
out  came  a  piece  of  paper,  rolled  up  tight 
like  those  candle-lighters  that  the  ladies 
make.  I  unrolled  it — and,  by  George  !  gen- 
tlemen all,  there  was  the  letter ! 

The  original  letter ! — I  knew  it  by  the 
colour  of  the  ink.  The  letter  was  worth 
five  hundred  pounds  to  me  1  It  was  all 
I  could  do  to  keep  myself  at  first  from 
throwing  my  hat  into  the  air,  and  hooraying 
like  mad.  I  had  to  take  a  chair  and  sit 
quiet  in  it  for  a  minute  or  two,  before 
I  could  cool  myself  down  to  my  proper 
business  level.  I  knew  that  I  was  safely 
down  again  when  I  found  myself  pondering 
how  to  let  Mr.  Davager  know  that  he  had 
been  done  by  the  innocent  country  attorney, 
after  all. 

It  was  not  long  before  a  nice  little  irrita- 
ting plan  occurred  to  me.  I  tore  a  blank 
leaf  out  of  my  pocket-book,  wrote  on  it  with 
my  pencil  "  Change  for  a  five  hundred 
pound  note,"  folded  up  the  paper,  tied  the 
thread  to  it,  poked  it  back  into  the  hiding 
place,  smoothed  over  the  pile  of  the  carpet, 
and — as   everybody   in   this   place  guesses 


THE   SEVEN   POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


29 


before  I  can  tell  them — bolted  off  to  Mr. 
Frank,  lie,  in  his  turn,  bolted  off  to  show 
the  letter  to  the  young  lady,  who  first  certi- 
fied to  its  genuineness,  then  dropped  it  into 
the  fire,  and  then  took  the  initiative  for  the 
first  time  since  her  marriage  engagement, 
by  flinging  her  arms  round  his  neck,  kissing 
him  with  all  her  might,  and  going  into  hys- 
terics in  his  arms.  So  at  least  Mr.  Frank 
told  me  ;  but  that's  not  evidence.  It  is  evi- 
dence, however,  that  I  saw  them  married 
with  my  own  eyes  on  the  Wednesday ; 
and  that  while  they  went  off  in  a  carriage 
for  to  spend  the  honeymoon,  I  went  off  on 
my  own  legs  to  open  a  credit  at  the  Town 
and  County  Bank  with  a  five  hundred  pound 
note  in  my  pocket. 

As  to  Mr.  Davager,  I  can  tell  you  nothing 
about  him,  except  what  is  derived  from 
hearsay  evidence,  which  is  always  unsatis- 
factory evidence,  even  in  a  lawyer's  mouth. 

My  boy  Tom,  although  twice  kicked  off  by 
Sam  the  pony,  never  lost  hold  of  the  bridle, 
and  kept  his  man  in  sight  from  first  to  last. 
He  had  nothing  particular  to  report,  except 
that  on  the  way  out  to  the  Abbey  Mr.  Dava- 
ger had  stopped  at  the  public-house,  had 
spoken  a  word  or  two  to  his  friend  of  the 


night  before,  and  had  handed  him  what 
looked  like  a  bit  of  paper.  This  was  no 
doubt  a  clue  to  the  thread  that  held  the  let- 
ter, to  be  used  in  case  of  accidents.  In  every 
other  respect  Mr.  D.  had  ridden  out  and  rid- 
den in  like  an  ordinary  sight-seer.  Tom 
reported  him  to  me  as  having  dismounted  at 
the  hotel  about  two.  At  half-past  I  locked 
my  office  door,  nailed  a  card  under  the 
knocker  with  "  not  at  home  till  tn-morrow" 
written  on  it,  and  retired  to  a  friend's  house 
a  mile  or  so  out  of  the  town  for  the  rest  of 
the  day. 

Mr.  Davager  left  the  Gatliffe  Arms  that 
night  with  his  best  clothes  on  his  back,  and 
with  all  the  valuable  contents  of  liis  dressing- 
case  in  his  pockets.  I  am  not  in  a  condition 
to  state  whether  he  ever  went  through  the 
form  of  asking  for  his  bill  or  not :  but  I  can 
positively  testify  that  he  never  paid  it,  and 
that  the  effects  left  in  his  bedroom  did  not 
pay  it  either.  When  I  add  to  these  frag- 
ments of  evidence,  that  he  and  I  have  never 
met  (luckily  for  me),  since  I  jockej-ed  him 
out  of  his  bank  note,  I  have  about  fulfilled 
my  implied  contract  as  maker  of  a  statement, 
with  the  present  company  as  hearers  of  a 
statement 


/KA^^'^'^^yv 


THE   FIFTH   POOR  TRAVELLER 


Do  you  know — the  journeyman  watch- 
maker from  Geneva  began — do  you  know 
those  long  straight  lines  of  French  country, 
over  which  I  have  often  walked?  Do  you 
know  those  rivers,  so  long,  so  uniform  in 
breadth,  so  dully  gray  in  hue,  that  in  des- 
pair at  their  regularity,  momentarily  libel 
nature  as  being  only  a  grand  canal  commis- 
sioner after  all  ?  Do  you  know  the  long 
funeral  rows  of  poplars,  or  dreary  parallelo- 
grams of  osiers,  that  fringe  those  river 
banks  ;  the  long  white  roads,  hedgeless, 
but,  oh  !  so  dismally  ditchful ;  the  long  low 
Btone  walls  ;  the  long  farmhouses,  without  a 
spark  of  the  robust,  leafy,  cheerful  life  of 
the  English  homsteads ;  the  long  fields, 
scarcely  ever  green,  but  of  an  ashen  tone, 
wearily  furrowed,  as  though  the  earth  had 
grown  old  and  was  beginning  to  show  the 
crow's  feet;  the  long  interminable  gray 
French  landscape  ?  The  sky  itself  seems 
longer  than  it  ought  to  be  ;  and  the  clouds 
stretch  away  to  goodness  knows  where  in 
long  low  banks,  as  if  the  heavens  had  been 
ruled  with  a  parallel.  If  a  vehicle  passes 
you  it  is  only  a  wofully  long  diligence — 
lengthened  yellow  ugliness  long  drawn  out, 
with  a  seemingly  endless  team  of  horses, 


and  a  long,  stifling  cloud  of  dust  behind  it ; 
a  driver  for  the  wheelers  with  a  whip  seven 
times  as  long  as  it  ought  to  be  ;  and  a  pos- 
tillion for  the  leaders  with  boots  long  enough 
for  seven-leaguers.  His  oaths  are  long  ;  the 
horses'  manes  are  long ;  their  tails  are  so 
long  that  they  are  obliged  to  have  them  tied 
up  with  straw.  The  stages  are  long,  the 
journey  long,  the  fares  long — the  whole 
longitudinal  carriage  leaves  a  long  melan 
choly  jingle  of  bells  behind  it. 

Yes  :  French  scenery  is  very  lengthy  ;  so 
I  settled  in  my  mind  at  least  as  I  walked 
with  long  strides  along  the  white  French 
road.  A  longer  me — my  shadow — walked 
before  me,  bending  its  back  and  drooping  its 
arms,  and  angularising  its  elonijated  legs 
like  drowsy  compasses.  The  shadow  looked 
tired :  I  felt  so.  I  had  been  oppressed  by 
length  all  day.  I  had  passed  a  long  proces- 
sion— some  hundreds  of  boys  in  gray  great 
coats  and  red  trowsers :  soldiers.  I  had 
found  their  guns  and  bayonets  too  long; 
their  coats  disproportionately  lengthy ;  the 
moustaches  of  their  officers,  ridiculously 
elongated.  There  was  no  end  of  them — 
their  rolling  drums,  baggage  waggons,  and 
led  horses.     I  had  passed  a  team  of  bullocks 


30 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


ploughing  ;  they  looked  as  long  as  the  lane 
that  hath  no  turning.  A  long  man  followed 
them  smoking  a  long  pipe.  A  wretched  pig 
I  saw,  too — a  long,  lean,  bristly,  lanky-leg- 
ged monstrosity,  without  even  a  curly  tail, 
for  his  tail  was  long  and  pendant;  a  mis- 
erable pig,  half-snouted  greyhound,  half- 
abashed  weazel,  whole  hog,  and  an  eyesore 
to  me.  I  was  a  long  way  from  home.  I 
had  the  spleen,  I  wanted  something  short — 
not  to  drink,  but  a  short  break  in  the  long 
landscape,  a  house,  a  knoll,  a  clump  of  trees 
— anything  to  relieve  this  long  purgatory. 

Whenever  I  feel  inclined  to  take  a  more 
than  ordinarily  dismal  view  of  things,  I  find 
it  expedient  to  take  a  pipe  of  tobacco  instead. 
As  I  wanted  to  rest,  however,  as  well  as 
emoke.  I  had  to  walk  another  long  mile. 
When  I  descried  a  house,  in  front  thereof 
was  a  huge  felled  tree,  and  on  the  tree  I  sat 
and  li<;hted  my  pipe.  The  day  was  of  no 
particular  character  whatever  ;  neither  wet 
nor  dry,  cold  nor  hot — neither  springy,  sum- 
mery, autumnal,  nor  wintry. 

The  house  I  was  sitting  opposite  to,  might 
have  been  one  of  public  entertainment  (for 
it  was  a  cabaret)  if  there  had  been  any 
public  in  the  neighborhood  to  be  entertained, 
which  (myself  excepted)  I  considered  doubt- 
ful. It  seemed  to  me  as  if  Bacchus,  roving 
about  on  the  loose,  had  dropped  a  stray  tub 
here  on  the  solitary  road,  and  no  longer 
coming  that  way,  the  tub  itself  had  gone 
to  decay — had  become  uuhooped,  mouldy, 
leaky.  I  declare  that,  saving  a  certain  fan- 
ciful resemblance  to  the  barrel  on  which  the 
god  of  wine  is  generally  supposed  to  take 
horse  exercise,  the  house  had  no  more  shape 
than  a  lump  of  cheese  that  one  might  dig 
hap-hazard  from  a  soft  double  Gloucester. 
The  windows  were  patches  and  the  doorway 
had  evidently  been  made  subsequently  to 
the  erection  of  the  building,  and  looked  like 
an  excrescence  as  it  was.  The  top  of  the 
house  had  been  pelted  with  mud,  thatch, 
tiles,  and  slates,  rather  than  roofed  ;  and  a 
top  room  jutted  out  laterally  from  one  of  the 
walls,  supported  beneath  by  crazy  uprights, 
like  a  poor  relation  clinging  to  a  genteel 
kinsman  nearly  as  poor.  The  walls  had 
been  plastered  once,  but  the  plaster  had 
peeled  off  in  places,  and  mud  and  wattles 
peeped  through  tike  a  beggar's  bare  knee 
through  his  torn  trowsers.  An  anomalous 
wooden  ruin,  that  might  have  been  a  barrel 
in  the  beginning,  then  a  dog-kennel,  then  a 
dust-bin,  then  a  hen-coop,  seemed  fast  ap- 
proximating (eked  out  by  some  rotten  pail- 
ings  and  half  a  deal  box)  to  a  pigstye : 
perhaps  my  enemy  the  long  pig  with  the 
pendant  tail  lived  there  when  he  was  at 
home.  A  lively  old  birch-broom,  senile  but 
twiggy,  thriving  under  a  kindly  manure  of 
broken  bottl(?s  and  woodashes,  was  the  only 
apology  for  trees,  hedges,  or  vegetation  gen- 
erally, visible.     If  wood  was  deficient,  how- 


ever, there  was  plenty  of  water.  Behind 
the  house,  where  it  had  been  apparently 
raining  for  some  years,  a  highly  respectable 
puddle,  as  far  as  mud  and  stagnation  went, 
had  formed,  and  on  the  surface  of  it  drifted 
a  solitary,  purposeless,  solelcss  old  shoe,  and 
one  dismal  duck,  which  no  amount  of  green 
peas  would  have  ever  persuaded  me  to  eat. 
There  was  a  chimney  to  the  house,  but  not 
in  the  proper  place,  of  course  ;  it  came  out 
of  one  of  the  walls,  close  to  the  impromptu 
pigstye,  in  the  shape  of  a  rusty,  battered  iron 
funnel.  There  had  never  been  anything  to 
speak  of  done  in  the  way  of  painting  to 
the  house  ;  only  some  erratic  journeyman 
painter  passing  that  way  had  tried  his 
brushes,  in  red,  green,  and  yellow  smudges 
on  the  wall ;  had  commenced  dead  coloring 
one  of  the  window  sills  ;  and  had  then  given 
it  up  as  a  bad  job.  Some  pretentious  an- 
nouncements relative  to  "Good  wines  and 
liquors"  and  "  II  y  a  un  billard,"  there  had 
been  once  above  the  door,  but  the  rain  had 
washed  out  some  of  the  letters,  and  the 
smoke  had  obscured  others,  and  the  plaster 
had  peeled  off  from  beneath  more  ;  and 
some,  perhaps,  the  writer  had  never  finished ; 
so  the  inscriptions  were  a  mere  wandering 
piece  of  idiotcy  now.  If  anything  were 
wanted  to  complete  the  general  wretched- 
ness of  this  house  of  dismal  appearance,  it 
would  have  been  found  in  the  presence  of  a 
ghostly  set  of  ninepins  that  Kip  Van  Winkle 
might  have  played  with. 

All  these  things  were  not  calculated  to 
inspire  cheerfulness.  I  continued  smoking, 
however,  and  thought  that,  by-and-by,  I 
would  enter  the  cabaret,  and  see  if  there 
were  any  live  people  there  ;  which  appeared 
unlikely. 

All  at  once,  there  came  out  to  me  from 
the  house  a  little  man.  It  is  not  at  all  de- 
rogating from  his  manhood,  to  state  that  he 
was  also  a  little  boy,  of  perhaps  eight  years 
old  ;  but  in  look,  in  eye,  in  weird  fur-cap, 
in  pea-coat,  blue,  canvas  trowsers,  and  sa- 
bots, he  was  at  least  thirty-seven  years  of 
age.  He  had  a  remarkable  way,  too,  of 
stroking  his  chin  with  his  hand.  He  looked 
at  me  long  and  fully,  but  without  the  slight- 
est rudeness,  or  intrusive  curiosity ;  then 
sitting  by  my  side  on  the  great  felled  tree, 
he  smoked  a  mental  pipe  (so  it  appeard  to 
me),  while  I  smoked  a  material  one.  Once, 
I  think,  he  softly  felt  the  texture,  of  my 
coat ;  but  I  did  not  turn  my  head,  and  pre- 
tended not  to  notice. 

We  were  getting  on  thus,  very  sociably 
together,  without  saying  a  word,  when, 
having  finished  my  pipe,  I  replaced  it  in 
my  pouch,  and  began  to  remove  a  little  of 
the  superfluous  dust  from  my  boots.  My 
pulverous  appearance  was  the  cue  for  the 
little  man  to  address  himself  to  speech. 

"  I  see,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  you  are  one 
of  those  Poor  Travellers  whom  mamma  tells 


THE  SEVEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


31 


as  we  are  to  take  such  care  of.  Attend, 
attend  ;  I  will  do  your  affair  for  you  in  a 
moment." 

He  trotted  across  to  the  cabaret,  and 
after  a  lapse  of  two  or  three  minutes,  re- 
turned with  a  tremendous  hunch  of  bread, 
a  cube  of  cheese — which  smelt,  as  the 
Americans  say,  rather  loud,  but  was  excel- 
lently well  tasted — and  an  anomalous  sort 
of  vessel,  that  was  neither  a  jug,  a  mug,  a 
cup,  a  glass,  nor  a  pint-pot,  but  partook  of 
the  characteristics  of  all — full  of  Macon  wine. 

"  This  is  Friday,"  added  the  little  man, 
and  meagre  day,  else  should  you  be  regaled 
with  sausage — and  of  Lyons — of  which  we 
have  as  long  as  that."  Saying  which,  he 
extended  his  little  arms  to  perhaps  half  a 
yard's  distance  one  from  the  other. 

I  did  not  care  to  inform  the  little  man 
that  I  was  of  a  persuasion  that  did  not  for- 
i  id  the  eating  of  sausages  on  Fridays.  I 
ale  the  bread  and  cheese,  and  drank  the 
wine,  all  of  which  were  very  good  and  very 
palatable,  very  contentedly  ;  the  little  maa 
sitting  by,  the  while,  nursing  one  of  his 
short  legs,  and  talking  to  himself  softly. 

When  I  had  finished,  I  lighted  another 
pipe,  and  went  in  for  conversation  with  the 
little  man.  We  soon  exhausted  the  ordi- 
nary topics  of  conversation,  such  as  the 
weather,  the  distance  from  the  last  town, 
and  the  distance  to  the  next.  I  found  that 
the  little  man's  forte  was  interrogatory,  and 
let  him  have  his  swing  that  way. 

"Tou  come  from  a  long  way?"  he  asked. 

"  A  long  way,"  I  answered.  "  From 
beyond  the  Sous-prefecture,  beyond  Nantes, 
beyond  Brest  and  L'Orient." 

"  But  from  a  town  always  ?  You  come 
from  a  town  where  there  are  a  great  many 
people,  and  where  they  make  wheels  1" 

I  answered  that  I  came  from  a  large 
town,  and  that  I  had  no  doubt,  though 
I  had  no  personal  experience  in  the  matter, 
that  wheels  were  made  there. 

"  And  cannot  you  make  wheels?" 

I  told  him  I  was  not  a  wheelwright ; 
I  only  made  the  wheels  of  watches,  which 
were  not  the  wheels  he  meant. 

'"Because,"  the  little  man  went  on  to 
say,  softly,  and  more  to  himself  than  to 
me,  "  mamma  said  he  liked  to  live  in 
towns,  where  there  were  many  people,  and 
M.  le  Cure  said  that  wherever  wheels  were 
made,  he  could  gain  his  bread." 

I  could  not  make  much  of  this  statement, 
80  I  puffed  away  at  my  pipe,  and  listened. 

"  By  the  way,"  my  small  but  elderly 
companion  remarked,  "would  you  have  any 
objection  to  my  bringing  my  sister  to  you  ?" 

The  more  I  saw  of  so  original  a  family 
the  better,  I  thought ;  so  I  told  him  I  should 
be  delighted  to  see  his  sister. 

He  crossed  over  to  the  cabaret  again,  and 
almost  immediately  afterwards  returned, 
leading  a  little  maid. 


She  seemed  about  a  year  younger,  or 
a  year  older  than  her  brother.  I  could  not 
tell  which.  It  did  not  matter  which.  She 
was  very  fair,  and  her  auburn  locks  were 
confined  beneath  a  little  prim  blue  cap. 
Mittens,  a  striped  woollen  shirt,  a  smart 
white  chemisette,  blue  hose,  and  trim  little 
sabots, — all  these  had  the  little  maid.  She 
had  a  little  chain  and  golden  cross  ;  a  pair 
of  scissors  hanging  by  a  string  to  her  girdle, 
a  black  tabinet  apron,  and  a  little  silver 
ring  on  the  forefinger  of  her  left  hand.  Her 
eyes  were  very  blue,  but  they  could  not  see 
my  dusty  boots,  my  pipe,  and  three  days' 
beard.  They  could  not  see  the  great  felled 
tree,  her  brother,  in  his  piea-coat,  the  sky, 
the  sun  going  down  beyond  the  long  straight 
banks  of  trees.  They  had  never  seen  any 
of  these  things.     The  little  maid  was  blind. 

She  had  known  all  about  me,  however,  as 
far  as  the  boots,  the  pipe,  the  dust,  the 
bread  and  cheese,  my  having  come  a  long 
way,  and  not  being  a  wheelwrij^ht,  went, 
long  since.  At  least,  she  seemed  quite  au 
fait  on  general  topics  connected  with  my 
social  standing,  or  rather  sitting,  on  the 
tree  ;  and  taking  a  seat  on  one  side  of  me, 
her  brother,  the  little  man,  on  the  other,  the 
two  little  children  began  to  chatter  most 
delightfully. 

Mamma  worked  in  the  fields — in  her  own 
fields.  She  had  three  fields ;  fields  large  as 
that  (distance  measured  by  little  maid's 
arms,  after  the  manner  of  her  brother,  in 
reference  to  the  sausage  question).  Papa 
made  wheels.  They  loved  him  very  much, 
but  he  beat  mamma,  and  drank  wine  by 
cannons.  When  he  was  between  two  wines 
(that  is,  drunk),  he  knocked  Lili's  head 
against  the  wall  (Lili  was  the  little  man). 
When  M.  le  Cur6  tried  to  bring  him  to  a 
sense  of  the  moral,  he  laughed  at  his  imse. 
He  was  a  farcer,  was  papa.  He  made 
beautiful  wheels,  and  earned  money  like 
that  (arm  measurement  again),  except  when 
he  went  weddingising  (nocer),  when  he 
always  came  back  between  two  wines,  and 
between  the  two  fell  to  the  ground.  Papa 
went  away  a  long  time,  a  very  long  time 
ago  ;  before  the  white  calf  at  the  farm  was 
born.  Before  Andr6  drew  the  bad  numhier 
in  the  conscription,  and  went  away  to 
Africa.  Before  Lili  had  his  grand  malady 
(little  man  looked  a  hundred  years  old,  with 
the  conscious  experience  of  a  grand  malady. 
What  was  it?  Elephantiasis,  spasmodic 
neuralgia?  Something  wonderful,  with  a 
long  name,  I  am  sure).  Papa  sold  the 
brown  horse,  and  the  great  bed  in  oak,  be- 
fore he  went  away.  He  also  brised  mam- 
ma's head  with  a  bottle,  previous  to  his  de- 
parture. He  was  coming  back  some  day. 
He  was  sure  to  come  back.  M.  le  Cure  said 
no,  and  that  he  was  a  worth-nothing,  but 
mamma  said.  Yes,  and  cried  ;  though,  for 
my  part,"  concluded  the  little  maid,  when 


32 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


between  herself  and  brother  she  had  told 
me  all  this,  "  /  think  that  poor  papa  never 
will  come  back,  but  he  has  gone  away  among 
those  Bedouin  Turks,  who  are  so  m^chants, 
and  that  they  have  eaten  him  up." 

The  little  blind  fairy  made  this  statement 
with  an  air  of  such  positive,  yet  mild  con- 
viction, crossing  her  mites  of  hands  in  her 
lap  as  she  did  so,  that  for  the  moment  I 
would  have  no  more  attempted  to  question 
the  prevalence  of  cannibalism  in  Constan- 
tinople than  to  deny  the  existence  of  the 
setting  sun. 

While  these  odd  little  people  were  thus 
entertaining  me,  Heaven  knows  where  ray 
thoughts  were  wandering.  This  strange 
life  they  led.  The  mother  away  at  work, 
the  drunken  wheelwright  father  a  fugitive 
(he  must  have  been  an  awful  ruiEan),  and, 
strangest  of  all  strange  phases,  that  these 
two  little  ones  should  be  left  to  keep  a 
public  house !  I  thought  of  all  these 
things,  and  then  my  thoughts  came  back 
to,  and  centred  themselves  in,  the  weird 
little  tigure  of  the  blind  girl  beside  me.  It 
was  but  a  poor  little  blind  girl,  in  a  blue 
petticoat  and  sabots  ;  yet  so  exquisitely  re- 
gular were  the  features,  so  golden  the  hair, 
So  rirm,  and  smooth,  and  white — not  marble, 
not  wax,  not  ivory,  yet  partaking  of  all 
three,  the  complexion,  so  symmetrical  every 
line,  and  so  gloriously  harmonious  the 
whole  combination  of  lines,  that  the  little 
maid  might  have  been  taken  then  and  there 
as  she  sat,  popped  in  a  frame,  with  "  Raifa- 
elle  pinsit."  in  the  corner,  and  purchased 
on  the  nail  for  five  thousand  guineas. 

I  could  not  help  noticing  from  time  to 
time,  during  our  conversation,  that  the  little 
man  in  the  pea-coat  turned  aside  to  whisper 
somewhat  mysteriously  to  his  sister,  and 
then  looked  at  me  more  mysteriously  still. 
He  appeared  to  have  something  on  his  mind, 
and  alter  a  nod  of  apparent  acquiescence 
on  the  part  of  the  little  blind  girl,  it  soon 
came  out  what  the  something  was. 

"  My  sister  and  I,"  said  this  small  person, 
"hope  that  you  will  not  be  ofi'ended  with 
us ;  but  would  you  have  any  objection  to 
show  us  your  tongue  ?" 

This  was,  emphatically,  a  startler.  Could 
the  little  man  be  a  physician,  as  well  as  a 
publican  ?  I  did  as  he  asked  me,  though  I 
am  afraid  I  looked  very  foolish,  and  shut 
my  eyes  as  I  thrust  forth  the  member  he 
desired  to  inspect.  He  appeared  highly 
gratified  with  the  sight  of  my  tongue,  com- 
municating the  results  of  his  observation 
thereof  to  his  sister,  who  clapped  her  hands, 
and  seemed  much  pleased.  Then  he  con- 
descended to  explain. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  "  that  you  to^d  us 
you  came  from  a  distant  country ;  that  is 
well  seen,  for  though  you  speak  French  like 
a  little  sheep,  you  do  not  speak  it  with  the 
Bame  tongue  that  we  do." 


My  experience  of  the  courtrmartial  scene 
in  Black-eyed  Susan,  had  taught  me  that  it 
was  possible  to  play  the  fiddle  like  an  angel; 
but  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  heard 
of  a  grown  man  talking  like  a  little  sheep. 
I  took  it  as  a  compliment,  however  (whether 
I  was  right  or  wrong  in  doing  so  is  ques- 
tionable), and  waited  to  hear  more. 

"  And  my  sister  says  that  the  reason  why 
all  strangers  from  far  countries  cannot  speak 
as  we  do,  is  because  they  have  a  dark  line 
right  down  their  tongues.  Now  you  must 
have  a  line  down  your  tongue,  though  I  am 
not  tall  enough  to  see  it !" 

The  creed  of  this  valiant  little  fellow  in 
respect  to  lines  and  tongues  had  evidently 
been  built  long  since,  upon  a  rock  of  ages 
of  loving  faith  in  what  his  sister  had  told 
him.  Besides,  how  do /know?  /never  saw 
my  tongue  except  in  a  looking-glass,  and 
that  may  have  been  false.  My  tongue  may 
have  five  hundred  lines  crossing  it  at  every 
imaginable  angle,  for  aught  I  know. 

So,  we  three,  oddly  assorted  trio,  went 
chattering  on,  till  the  shadows  warned  me 
that  twilight  was  fast  approaching,  and  that 
I  had  two  miles  to  walk  to  the  town  where 
I  had  appointed  to  sleep.  Remembering 
then,  that  the  little  man  had  "  done  my 
afi'air  for  me,"  in  an  early  stage  of  our  in- 
terview in  the  way  of  bread  and  cheese  and 
wine,  and  not  choosing  to  be  really  the  poor 
traveller  I  seemed,  I  drew  out  a  five-franc 
piece  and  profi"ered  payment. 

Both  the  children  refused  the  coin  ;  and 
the  little  maid  said  gravely,  "  Mamma  said 
that  we  were  always  to  take  care  of  poor 
travellers.  What  we  have  given  you  is  pour 
I'amour  de  Dieu, — for  God's  sake. 

I  tried  to  force  some  trifle  on  them  as  a 
gift,  but  they  would  have  none  of  my  coin. 
Seeing  then  that  I  looked  somewhat  disap- 
pointed, the  little  man,  like  a  profound 
diplomatist  as  he  was,  smoothed  away  the 
diflSculty  in  a  moment. 

"  If  you  like  to  go  as  far  as  you  can  see  to 
the  right,  towards  the  town,"  he  said,  "  you 
will  find  a  blind  old  woman,  playing  upon  a 
flageolet,  and  sitting  at  a  cakestall  by  the 
way-side.  And  if  you  like  to  buy  us  some 
gingerbread  : — for  three  sous  she  will  give 
you — oh  !  like  that  1"  For  the  last  time  in 
this  history  he  extended  his  arms  in  sign  of 
measurement. 

I  went  as  far  as  I  could  see,  which  was 
not  far,  and  found  the  blind  old  woman 
playing  on  a  flageolet,  and  not  seeing  at  all. 
Of  her  did  I  purchase  gingerbread  with 
brave  white  almonds  in  it :  following  my 
own  notions  of  measurement,  I  may  hint,  in 
respect  to  the  number  of  sous  worth. 

Bringing  it  back  to  the  children,  I  took 
them  up,  and  kissed  them  and  bade  them 
good-bye.  Then  I  left  them  to  the  ginger- 
bread and  the  desolate  cabaret,  until  mam- 
ma should  return  fi'om  the  fields,  and  that 


THE   SEVEN   POOR   TRAVELLERS. 


33 


famous  domestic  institution,  the  "  soupe," 
of    which   frequent   mention   had   already 
been  made  during  our  intercourse,  should 
be  ready. 
I  have   never  seen  them  since  ;  I  shall 


never  see  them  again  ;  but,  if  it  ever  be  my 
lot  to  be  no  longer  solitary,  I  pray  that  I 
may  have  a  boy  and  girl,  as  wise  and  good, 
and  innocent  as  I  am  sure  those  little  chil- 
dren were. 


..^/VS/'^^ -^  ^#^^^^w. 


THE    SIXTH    POOR    TRAVELLER 


Was  the  little  widow.  She  had  been  sit- 
ting by  herself  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the 
room  all  this  time ;  her  pale  face  often 
turned  anxiously  toward  the  door,  and  her 
hollow  eyes  watching  restlessly,  as  if  she 
expected  someone  to  appear.  She  was  very 
quiet,  very  grateful  for  any  little  kindness, 
very  meek  in  the  midst  of  her  wildness. 
There  was  a  strained  expression  in  her  eyes, 
and  a  certain  excited  air  about  her  altogetlier, 
that  was  very  near  insanity  ;  it  seemed  as  if 
she  had  once  been  terrified  by  some  sudden 
shock,  to  the  verge  of  madness. 

When  her  turn  came  to  speak,  she  began 
in  a  low  voice — her  eyes  still  glancing  to  the 
door — and  spoke  as  if  to  herself  rather  than 
to  the  rest  of  us;  speaking  low  but  ra- 
pidly— somewhat  like  a  somnambule  re- 
peating a  lesson. 

They  advised  me  not  to  marry  him  (she 
began).  They  told  me  he  was  wild — un- 
principled— bad;  but  I  did  not  care  for 
what  they  said.  I  loved  him  and  I  disbe- 
lieved them.  I  never  thought  about  his 
goodness — I  only  knew  that  he  was  beautiful 
and  gifted  beyond  all  that  1  l^ad  ever  met 
with  in  our  narrow  society.  I  loved  him, 
with  no  passing  school-girl  fancy,  but  with 
my  whole  heart — my  whole  soul.  I  had  no 
life,  no  joy,  no  hope  without  him,  and  hea- 
ven would  have  been  no  heaven  to  me  if  he 
had  not  been  there.  I  say  all  this,  simply 
to  show  what  a  madness  of  devotion  mine 
was. 

My  dear  mother  was  very  kind  to  me 
throughout.  She  had  loved  my  father,  I 
believe,  almost  to  the  same  extent ;  so  that 
she  could  sympathise  with  me  even  while 
discouraging.  She  told  me  that  I  was  wrong 
and  foolish,  and  that  I  should  repent ;  but  I 
kissed  away  the  painful  lines  between  her 
eyes,  and  made  her  smile  when  I  tried  to 
prove  to  her  that  love  was  better  than  pru- 
dence. So  we  married:  not  so  much  with- 
out the  consent  as  against  the  wish  of  my 
family ;  and  even  that  wish  withheld  in 
sorrow  and  in  love.  I  remember  all  this 
now,  and  see  the  true  proportions  of  every- 
thing ;  then,  I  was  blinded  by  my  passions, 
and  understood  nothing. 

Wo  went  away  to  our  pi'etty,  bright  home 
3 


[  in  one  of  the  neighborhoods   of  London, 

•  near   a   park.     We   lived   there   for   many 

I  months — I  in  a  state  of  intoxication  rather 
than  of  earthly  happiness,  and  he  was 
happy,  too,  then,  for  I  am  sure  he  was  in- 

'.  nocent,    and    I   know   he   loved   me.      Oh, 

(  dreams — dreams  ! 

I      I  did  not  know  my  husband's  profession. 

:  lie  was  always  busy  and  often  absent ;  but 
he  never  told  me  what  he  did.     There  had 

j  been  no  settlements  either,  when  I  married, 
lie   said   he    had   a   conscientious    scruple 

]  against  them  ;  that  they  were  insulting  to  a 
man's  honor  and  degrading  to  any  husband. 
This  was  one  of  the  reasons  why,  at  home, 
they  did  not  wish  me  to  marry  him.  But  I 
was  only  glad  to  be  able  to  show  him  how  I 
trusted  him,  by  meeting  his  wishes  and  re- 
fusing, on  my  own  account,  to  accept  the 
legal  protection  of  settlements.  It  was  such 
a  pride  to  me  to  sacrifice  all  to  him.  Thus 
I  knew  nothing  of  his  real  life — his  pursuits 
or  his  fortunes.  I  never  asked  him  any  ques- 
tions, as  much  from  indifference  to  every- 
thing but  his  love  as  from  a  wifely  blind- 
ness of  trust.  When  he  came  home  at  night, 
sometimes  very  gay,  singing  opera  songs 
and  calling  me  his  little  Medora,  as  he  used 
when  in  a  good  humor,  I  was  gay  too,  and 
grateful.  And  when  he  came  home  moody 
and  irritable — which  he  used  to  do,  often, 
after  we  had  been  married  about  three 
months,  once  even  threatening  to  strike  me, 
with  that  fearful  glare  in  his  eyes  I  remem- 
ber so  well,  and  used  to  see  so  often  after- 
wards— then  I  was  patient  and  silent,  and 
never  attempted  even  to  take  his  hand  or 
kiss  his  forehead  when  he  bade  me  be  still 
and  not  interrupt  him.  lie  was  my  law,  and 
his  approbation  the  sunshine  of  my  life  ;  so 
that  my  very  obedience  was  selfishness  :  for 
my  only  joy  was  to  see  him  happy,  and  my 
only  duty  to  obey  him. 

My  sister  came  to  visit  us.  My  husband 
had  seen  very  little  of  her  before  our  mai*- 
riage ;  for  she  had  often  been  from  home 
when  he  was  with  us,  down  at  Ilurst  Farm 
— that  was  the  name  of  my  dear  mother's 
place — and  I  had  always  fancied  they  had 
not  liked  even  the  little  they  had  seen  of 
each  other.    Ellen  was  never  loud  or  impor- 


34 


DICKEXS'   NEW   STORIES. 


tunate  in  her  opposition.  I  knew  that  she 
did  not  like  the  marriage,  but  she  did  not 
interfere.  I  remember  quite  well  the  only 
time  she  spoke  openly  to  me  on  the  subject, 
how  she  nung  herself  at  my  knees,  with  a 
passion  very  rare  in  her,  beseeching  me  to 
pause  and  reflect,  as  if  I  had  sold  myself  to 
my  ruin  when  I  promised  to  be  Ilarry's 
wife.  How  she  praj'ed  !  Poor  Ellen  !  I  can 
see  her  now,  with  her  heavy,  uncurled  hair 
falling  on  her  neck  as  she  knelt  half  un- 
dressed, her  large  eyes  full  of  agony  and 
supplication,  like  a  martyred  saint  praying. 
Poor  Ellen  !  I  thought  her  prejudiced  then  ; 
and  this  unspoken  injustice  has  lain  like  a 
heavy  crime  on  my  heart  ever  since  ;  for  I 
know  that  I  judged  her  wrongfully,  and  that 
I  was  ungrateful  for  her  love. 

She  came  to  see  us.  This  was  about  a 
year  and  a  half  after  I  married.  She  was 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  but  somewhat 
sterner,  as  well  as  sadder.  She  was  tall, 
strong  in  person,  and  dignified  in  manner. 
There  was  a  certain  manly  character  in  her 
beauty,  as  well  as  in  her  mind,  that  made 
one  respect  and  fear  her  too  a  little.  I  do 
not  mean  that  she  was  masculine,  or  hard, 
or  coarse :  she  was  a  true  woman  in  grace 
and  gentleness  ;  but  she  was  braver  than 
women  in  general.  She  had  more  self-reli- 
ance, was  more  resolute  and  steadfast,  and 
infinitely  less  impulsive,  and  was  more  active 
and  powerful  in  body. 

My  husband  was  very  kind  to  her.  He 
paid  her  great  attention  ;  and  sometimes  I 
half  perceived  that  he  liked  her  almost  bet- 
ter than  he  liked  me — he  used  to  look  at  her 
so  often :  but  with  such  a  strange  expression 
in  his  eyes !  I  never  could  quite  make  it 
out,  whether  it  was  love  or  hate.  Certainly, 
after  she  came  his  manner  changed  towards 
me.  I  was  not  jealous.  I  did  not  suspect 
this  change  from  any  small  feeling  of 
wounded  self-love,  or  from  any  envy  of  my 
sister  ;  but  I  saw  it — I  felt  it  in  my  heart — 
yet  without  connecting  it  with  Ellen  in  any 
way.  I  knew  that  he  no  longer  loved  me  as 
be  used  to  do,  but  I  did  not  think  he  loved 
her  ;  at  least  not  with  the  same  kind  of  love. 
I  used  to  be  surprised  at  Ellen's  conduct  to 
him.  She  was  more  than  cold ;  she  was 
passionately  rude  and  unkind  ;  not  so  much 
when  I  was  there  as  when  I  was  away.  For 
I  used  to  hear  her  voice  speaking  in  those 
deep  indignant  tones  that  are  worse  to  bear 
than  the  hardest  scream  of  passion  ;  and 
sometimes  I  used  to  hear  hard  words — he 
speaking  at  the  first  soft  and  pleadingly, 
often  to  end  in  a  terrible  burst  of  anger  and 
imprecation.  I  could  not  understand  why 
they  quarrelled.  There  was  a  mystery  be- 
tween them  I  did  not  know  of;  and  I  did 
not  like  to  ask  them,  for  I  was  afraid  of 
them  both — as  much  afraid  of  Ellen  as  my 
husband — and  I  felt  like  a  reed  between 
them — as  if  I  should  have  been  crushed  be- 


neath any  storm  I  might  chance  to  wake  up. 
So,  I  was  silent — suffering  alone,  and  bear- 
ing a  cheerful  face  so  far  as  I  could. 

Ellen  wanted  me  to  return  home  with  her. 
Soon  after  she  came,  and  soon  after  I  heard 
the  first  dispute  between  them,  she  urged 
me  to  go  back  to  Hurst  Farm ;  at  once,  and 
for  a  long  time.  Weak  as  I  am  by  nature, 
it  has  always  been  a  marvel  to  me  since, 
how  strong  I  was  where  my  love  for  my 
husband  was  concerned.  It  seemed  impos- 
sible for  me  to  yield  to  any  pressure  against 
him.  I  believe  now  that  a  very  angel  could 
not  have  turned  me  from  him  ! 

At  last  she  said  to  me  in  a  low  voice : 
"  Mary,  this  is  madness ! — it  is  almost  sin- 
ful !  Can  you  not  see — can  you  not  hear  ?" 
And  then  she  stopped,  and  would  say  no 
more,  though  I  urged  her  to  tell  me  what 
she  meant.  For  this  terrible  mystery  begun 
to  weigh  on  me  painfully,  and,  for  all  that  I 
trembled  so  much  to  fathom  it,  I  had  begun 
to  feel  that  any  truth  would  be  better  than 
such  a  life  of  dread.  I  seemed  to  be  living 
among  shadows;  my  very  husband  and  sis- 
ter not  real,  for  their  real  lives  were  hidden 
from  me.  But  I  was  too  timid  to  insist  on 
an  explanation,  and  so  things  went  on  in 
their  old  way. 

In  one  respect  only,  changing  still  more 
painfully,  still  more  markedly  ;  in  my  hus- 
band's conduct  to  me.  He  was  like  another 
creature  altogether  to  me  now,  he  was  so 
altered.  He  seldom  spoke  to  me  at  all,  and 
he  never  spoke  kindly.  All  that  I  did  an- 
noyed him,  all  that  I  said  irritated  him  ;  and 
once  (the  little  widow  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  shuddered)  he  spurned  me 
with  his  foot  and  cursed  me,  one  night 
in  our  own  room,  when  I  knelt  weeping  be- 
fore him,  supf)licating  him  for  pity's  sake  to 
tell  me  how  I  had  offended  him.  But  I  said 
to  myself  that  he  was  tired,  annoyed,  and 
that  it  was  irritating  to  see  a  loving  wo- 
man's tears;  and  so  I  excused  him,  as  often- 
times before,  and  went  on  loving  him  all  the 
same — God  forgive  me  for  my  idolatry  ! 

Things  had  been  very  bad  of  late  be- 
tween Ellen  and  my  husband.  But  the 
character  of  their  discord  was  changed.  In- 
stead of  reproaching,  they  watched  each 
other  incessantly.  They  put  me  in  mind  of 
fencers — my  husband  on  the  defensive. 

"  Mary,"  said  my  sister  to  me  suddenly, 
coming  to  the  sofa  where  I  was  sitting  em- 
broidering my  poor  baby's  cap.  '•  What 
does  your  Harry  do  in  life  ?  What  is  his 
profession  ?" 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  me  earnestly. 

"  I  do  not  know,  darling,"  I  answered, 
vaguely.  "He  has  no  profession  that  I 
know  of." 

"  But  what  fortune  has  he,  then  ?  Did  he 
not  tell  you  what  his  income  was,  and  how 
obtained,  when  he  married?  To  us,  he  said 
only  that  he  had  so  much  a  year — a  thou 


THE   SEVEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


35 


eand  a  year ;  and  he  would  Pay  no  more. 
But,  has  he  not  been  more  explicit  with 
you  ?" 

"  No,"  I  answered,  considerinfi; ;  for,  in- 
deed, I  had  never  thought  of  this.  I  had 
trusted  so  blindly  to  him  in  everything  that 
it  would  have  seemed  to  me  a  profound  in- 
sult to  have  even  asked  of  his  aifairs.  "  No, 
he  never  told  me  anything  about  his  for- 
tune, Ellen.  He  gives  me  money  when  I 
want  it,  and  is  always  generous.  He  seems 
to  have  plenty ;  whenever  it  is  asked  for,  he 
has  it  by  him,  and  gives  me  even  more  than 
I  require." 

Still  her  eyes  kept  looking  at  me  in  that 
strange  manner.  "And  this  is  all  you 
know  ?" 

"  Yes — all.  What  more  should  I  wish  to 
know?  Is  he  not  the  husband,  and  has  he 
not  absolute  right  over  everything  !  I  have  no 
business  to  interfere."  The  words  sound 
harsher  now  than  they  did  then,  for  I  spoke 
lovingly. 

Ellen  touched  the  little  cap  I  held.  "  Does 
not  this  make  you  anxious  ?"  she  said.  "  Can 
you  not  fear  as  a  mother,  even  while  you 
love  as  a  wife  ?" 

"Fear  darling!  Why?  What  should  I 
fear,  or  whom  ?  What  is  there,  Ellen,  on 
your  heart  ?"  I  then  added  passionately. 
"  Tell  uie  at  once  ;  for  I  know  that  you  have 
some  terrible  secret  concealed  from  me  ;  and 
I  would  rather  know  anything — whatever  it 
may  be — than  live  on,  longer,  in  this  kind 
of  suspense  and  anguish  !  It  is  too  much  for 
me  to  bear,  Ellen." 

She  took  my  hands.  "  Have  you  strength?" 
she  said,  earnestly.  "  Could  you  really  bear 
the  truth  ?"  Then  seeing  my  distress,  for  I 
had  fallen  into  a  kind  of  hysterical  fit — I 
was  very  delicate  then — she  shook  her  head 
in  despair,  and  letting  my  hands  fall  heavily 
on  my  lap,  said  in  undertone,  "  No,  no  !  she 
is  too  weak — too  childish !"  Then  she 
went  up  stairs  abruptly  ;  and  I  heard  her 
walking  about  her  own  room  for  nearly  an 
hour  after,  in  long  steady  steps. 

I  have  often  thought  that,  had  she  told 
me  then,  and  taken  me  to  her  heart — her 
strong,  brave,  noble  heart — I  could  have  de- 
rived courage  from  it,  and  could  have  borne 
the  dreadful  truth  I  was  forced  to  know 
afterwards.  But  the  strong  are  so  impatient 
with  us !  They  leave  us  too  soon — their 
own  strength  revolts  at  our  weakness  ;  so  we 
are  often  left,  broken  in  this  weakness,  for 
want  of  a  little  patience  and  sympathy. 

Ilarry  came  in,  a  short  time  after  Ellen 
had  left  me.  "  What  has  she  been  saying?" 
he  cried,  passionately.  His  eyes  were  wild 
and  bloodshot ;  his  beautiful  black  hair  flung 
all  in  disoi"der  about  his  face. 

"  Dear  Harry,  she  has  said  nothing  about 
you,"  I  answei'ed,  trembling.  "  She  only 
asked  what  was  your  profession,  and  how 
much  we  had  a  year.     That  was  all." 


"  Why  did  she  ask  this?  What  business 
was  it  of  hers?"  cried  Harry,  fiercely.  "  Tell 
me  ;"  and  he  shook  me  roughly ;  "  what  did 
you  answer  her,  little  fool  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing;"  and  I  began  to  cry:  it 
was  because  he  frightened  me.  "  I  said, 
what  is  true,  that  I  knew  nothing  of  your 
aff'airs,  as  indeed  what  concern  is  that  of 
mine  ?     I  could  say  nothing  more,  Harry." 

"  Better  that  than  too  much,"  he  mutr 
tered  ;  and  then  he  flung  me  harshly  back 
on  the  sofa,  saying,  "  Tears  and  folly  and 
weakness !  The  same  round — always  the 
same  !  Why  did  I  marry  a  mere  pretty  doll 
— a  plaything — no  wife  I" 

And  then  he  seemed  to  think  he  had  said 
too  much  ;  for  he  came  to  me  and  kissed  me, 
and  said  that  he  loved  me.  But,  for  the  first 
time  in  our  married  life  his  kisses  did  not 
soothe  me,  nor  did  I  believe  his  assurances. 

All  that  night  I  heard  Ellen  walk  steadily 
and  unresting  through  her  room.  She  never 
slackened  her  pace,  she  never  stopped,  she 
never  hurried  ;  but,  the  same  slow  measured 
tread  went  on  ;  the  firm  foot,  yet  light,  fall- 
ing as  if  to  music,  her  very  step  the  same 
mixture  of  manliness  and  womanhood  as  her 
character. 

After  this  burst  of  passion  Harry's  tender- 
ness to  me  became  unbounded  ;  as  if  he 
wished  to  make  up  to  me  for  some  wrong. 
I  need  not  say  how  soon  I  forgave  him,  nor 
how  much  I  loved  him  again.  All  my  love 
came  back  in  one  full  boundless  tide  ;  and 
the  current  of  my  being  set  towards  him 
again  as  before.  If  he  had  asked  me  for  my 
life  then,  as  his  mere  fancy,  to  destroy,  I 
would  have  given  it  to  him.  I  would  have 
lain  down  and  died,  if  he  had  wished  to  see 
the  flowers  grow  over  my  grave. 

My  husband  and  Ellen  grew  more  es- 
tranged as  his  affection  seemed  to  return  to 
me.  His  manner  to  her  was  defying  ;  hers 
to  him  contemptuous.  I  heard  her  call 
him  villain  once,  in  the  garden  below  the 
windows  ;  at  which  he  laughed — his  wicked 
laugh,  and  said  "  tell  her,  and  see  if  she  will 
believe  you  !" 

I  was  sitting  in  the  window,  working.  It 
was  a  cold  damp  day  in  the  late  autumn, 
when  those  chill  fogs  of  November  are  just 
beginning ;  those  fogs  with  the  frost  in 
them,  that  steal  into  one's  very  heart.  It  was 
a  day  when  a  visible  blight  is  in  the  air, 
when  death  is  abroad  everywhere,  and 
sufi"ering  and  crime.  I  was  alone  in  the 
drawing-room.  Ellen  was  up  stairs,  and  my 
husband,  as  I  believed,  in  the  City.  But  I 
have  remembered  since,  that  I  heard  the 
hall-door  softly  opened,  and  a  footstep  steal 
(juietly  by  the  drawing  room  up  the  stairs. 
The  evening  was  just  beginning  to  ch)se  in — 
dull,  gray,  and  ghostlike;  the  dying  daylight 
melting  into  the  long  shadows  that  stalked 
like  wandering  ghosts  about  the  fresh  made 
grave  of  nature.  I  sat  working  still,  at  some 


36 


DICKENS'  NEW   STORIES. 


of  those  small  garments  about  which  I 
dreamed  such  fond  dreams,  and  wove  such 
large  hopes  of  happiness  ;  and  as  I  sat,  while 
the  evening  fell  heavy  about  me,  a  myste- 
rious shadow  of  evil  passed  over  me,  a  dread 
presentiment,  a  consciousness  of  ill,  that 
made  me  tremble,  as  if  in  ague — angry  at 
myself  though  for  my  folly.  But,  it  was 
reality.  It  was  no  hystetrical  sinking  of  the 
spirits  that  I  felt ;  no  mere  nervousness  or 
cowardice  ;  it  was  something  I  had  never 
known  before ;  a  knowledge,  a  presence, 
a  power,  a  warning  word,  a  spirit's  cry,  that 
had  swept  by  me  as  the  fearful  evil  marched 
on  to  its  conclusion. 

I  heard  a  faint  scream  up  stairs.  It  was 
so  faint  I  could  scarcely  distinguish  it  from 
a  sudden  rush  of  wind  through  an  opening 
door,  or  the  chirp  of  a  mouse  behind  the 
wainscot.  Presently,  I  heard  the  same 
sound  a^ain  ;  and  then  a  dull  muffled  noise 
overhead,  as  of  some  one  walking  heavily, 
or  dragging  a  heavy  weight  across  the  floor. 
I  sat  petrified  by  fear.  A  nameless  agony 
was  upon  me  that  deprived  me  of  all  power 
of  action.  I  thought  of  Harry  and  I  thought 
of  Ellen,  in  an  inextricable  cypher  of  misery 
and  agony  ;  but  I  could  not  have  defined  a 
line  in  my  own  mind  ;  I  could  not  have  ex- 
plained what  it  was  I  feai-ed.  I  only  knew 
that  it  was  sorrow  that  was  to  come  and  sin. 
I  listened,  but  all  was  still  again  ;  once  only, 
I  thought  I  heard  a  low  moan,  and  once  a 
muttering  voice — which  I  know  now  to  have 
been  my  husband's,  speaking  passionately 
to  himself. 

And  then  his  voice  swept  stormfuUy 
through  the  house,  crj'ing  wildly,  "  Mary, 
Mary  !    Quick  here  !    Your  sister  !    Ellen  !" 

I  ran  up  stairs.  It  seems  to  me  now, 
that  I  almost  flew.  I  found  Ellen  lying  on 
the  floor  of  her  own  room,  just  inside  the 
door  ;  her  feet  towards  the  door  of  my  hus- 
band's study,  which  was  iranip'l'-il-ply  op- 
posite her  room.  She  was  faintiu_  ;  it  least 
I  thought  so  then.  We  raised  her  up  between 
us  ;  my  husband  trembling  more  than  I  ; 
and  I  unfastened  her  gown,  and  threw 
water  on  her  face,  and  pushed  back  her 
hair,  but  she  did  not  revive.  I  told  Harry  to 
go  for  a  doctor.  A  horrid  thought  was  steal- 
ing over  me  ;  but  he  lingered,  as  I  fancied, 
unaccountably  and  cruelly,  though  I  twice 
asked  him  to  go.  Then,  I  thought  that  per- 
haps he  was  too  much  overcome  ;  so  I  went 
to  him,  and  kissed  him,  and  said,  "  She  will 
soon  be  better,  Harry,"  cheerfully,  to  cheer 
him.  But  I  felt  in  my  heart  that  she  was  no 
more. 

At  last,  after  many  urgent  entreaties,  and 
after  the  servants  had  come  up,  clustering  in 
a  frightened  way  round  the  bed — but  he 
sent  them  away  again  immediately — he  put 
on  his  hat,  and  went  out,  soon  returning 
with  a  strange  man  ;  not  our  own  doctor. 
This  man  Avas  rude  and  coarse,  and  ordered 


me  aside,  as  I  stood  bathing  my  sister's 
face,  and  pulled  her  arm  and  hand  roughly, 
to  see  how  dead  they  fell,  and  stooped  down 
to  her  iips — I  thought  he  touched  them  even 
— all  in  a  violent  and  insolent  way,  that 
shocked  me  and  bewildered  me.  My  hus- 
band stood  in  the  shadow,  ghastly  pale, 
but  not  interfering. 

It  was  too  true,  what  the  strange  man  had 
said  so  coarsely.  She  was  dead.  Yes  ;  the 
creature  that  an  hour  ago  had  been  so  full 
of  life,  so  beautiful,  so  resolute,  so  young, 
was  now  a  stiffening  corpse,  inanimate  and 
dead,  without  life  and  without  hope.  Oh ! 
that  word  had  set  my  brain  on  fire  ?  Dead  I 
here,  in  my  house,  under  my  roof — dead  so 
mysteriously,  so  strangely — why  ?  How  ? 
It  was  a  fearful  dream,  it  was  no  truth  that 
lay  there.  I  was  in  a  nightmare  ;  I  was  not 
sane  ;  and  thinking  how  ghastly  it  all  was, 
I  fainted  softly  on  the  bed,  no  one  knowing, 
till  some  time  after,  that  I  had  fallen,  and 
was  not  praying.  When  I  recovered  I  was 
in  my  own  room,  alone.  Crawling  feebly 
to  my  sister's  door,  I  found  that  she  had 
been  washed  and  dressed,  and  was  now  laid 
out  on  her  bed.  It  struck  me  that  all  had 
been  done  in  strange  haste  :  Harry  telling 
me  the  servants  had  done  it  while  I  fainted. 
I  knew  afterwards  that  he  had  told  them 
that  it  was  I,  and  that  I  would  have  no 
help.  The  mystery  of  it  all  was  soon  to  be 
unravelled. 

One  thing  I  was  decided  on — to  watch  by 
my  sister  this  night.  It  was  in  vain  that  my 
husband  opposed  me  ;  in  vain  that  he  coaxed 
me  by  his  caresses,  or  tried  to  terrify  me 
with  angry  threats.  Something  of  my  sister's 
nature  seemed  to  have  passed  into  me  ;  and 
unless  he  had  positively  prevented  me  by 
force,  no  other  means  would  have  had  any 
e2"ect.  He  gave  way  to  me  at  last — angrily 
— and  the  night  came  on  and  found  me  sit- 
ting by  the  bedside  watching  my  dear  sister. 

How  beautiful  she  looked !.  Her  face, 
still  with  the  gentle  mark  of  sorrow  on  it 
that  it  had  in  life,  looked  so  grand !  She 
was  so  great,  so  pure  ;  she  was  like  a  goddess 
sleeping  ;  she  was  not  like  a  mere  woman  of 
this  earth.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  dead  ; 
there  was  life  about  her  yet,  for  there  was 
still  the  look  of  power  and  of  human  sympa- 
thy that  she  used  to  have  when  alive.  The 
soul  was  there  still,  and  love  and  knowledge. 

By  degrees  a  strange  feeling  of  her 
living  presence  in  the  room  came  over  me. 
Alone  in  the  still  midnight,  with  no  sound, 
no  person  near  me,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had 
leisure  and  power  to  pass  into  the  world  be 
yond  the  grave.  I  felt  my  sister  near  me  ; 
I  felt  the  passing  of  her  life  about  me,  as 
when  one  sleeps,  but  still  is  conscious  that 
another  life  is  weaving  in  with  ours,  it 
seemed  as  if  her  breath  fell  warm  on  my 
face  ;  as  if  her  shadowy  arms  held  me  in 
their  clasp ;   as   if  her    eyes    were  looking 


THE   SEVEN   POOR   TRAVELLERS. 


37 


through  the  darkness  at  me  ;  as  if  I  held 
her  hands  in  mine,  and  her  long  hair  floated 
round  my  forehead.  And  then  to  shake  oif 
these  fancies,  and  convince  myself  that  she 
was  really  dead,  I  looked  again  and  again  at 
her  lying  there  ;  a  marble  corpse,  ice-cold, 
with  the  lips  set  and  rigid,  and  the  death 
band  beneath  her  chin.  There  she  was, 
stiff  in  her  white  shroud,  the  sno\vy  linen 
pressing  so  lightly  on  her  ;  no  life  within,  no 
warmth  about  her,  and  all  my  fancies  were 
vain  dreams.  Then  I  buried  my  face  in  my 
hands,  and  wept  as  if  my  heart  was  break- 
ing. And  when  I  turned  away  my  eyes 
from  her,  the  presence  came  around  me 
again.  So  long  as  I  watched  her  it  was  not 
there :  I  saw  the  corpse  only  ;  but  when  I 
shut  this  out  from  me,  then  it  seemed  as  if  a 
barrier  had  been  removed,  and  that  my 
sister  floated  near  me  again. 

I  iiad  been  praying,  sitting  thus  in  these 
alternate  feelings  of  her  spiritual  presence 
and  her  bodily  death,  when,  raising  my  head 
and  looking  towards  the  farther  corner  of 
the  room,  I  saw,  standing  at  some  little  dis- 
tance, my  sister  Ellen.  I  saw  her  distinctly, 
as  distinctly  as  you  may  see  that  red  fire 
bhize.  Sadly  and  lovingly  her  dark  eyes 
li)oked  at  me,  sadly  her  gentle  lips  smiled, 
and  by  look  and  gesture  too  she  showed  me 
tiiat  she  wished  to  speak  to  me.  Strange,  I 
was  not  frightened.  It  was  so  natural  to 
see  her  there,  that  for  the  moment  I  forgot 
tliat  she  was  dead. 
Ellen,"  I  said,  "  what  is  it  ?" 

The  figure  smiled.  It  came  nearer.  Oh  ! 
do  not  say  it  was  fancy  !  I  saw  it  advance  ; 
it  came  glidingly  !  I  remembered  afterwards 
that  it  did  not  walk — but  it  came  forward — 
to  the  light,  and  stood  not  ten  paces  from 
me.  It  looked  at  me  still,  in  the  same  sad 
gentle  way,  and  somehow — I  do  not  know 
whether  with  the  hand  or  by  the  turning  of 
the  head — it  showed  me  the  throat,  where 
were  the  distinct  marks  of  two  powerful 
hands.  And  then  it  pointed  to  its  heart ; 
and  looking,  I  saw  the  broad  stain  of  blood 
above  it.  And  then  I  heard  her  voice — I 
swear  I  was  not  mad — I  heard  it,  I  say  to 
you  distinctly — whisper  softly,  "  Mary  \"  and 
tlien  itsaid,  still  more  audibly,  "  Murdered  !" 

And  then  the  figure  vanished,  and  sud- 
denlv  the  whole  room  was  vacant.  That  one 
dread  word  had  sounded  as  if  forced  out  by 
the  pressure  of  some  strong  agony — like  a 
man  revealing  his  life's  secret  when  dying. 
And  when  it  had  been  spoken,  or  rather 
wailed  forth,  there  was  a  sudden  sweep  and 
chilly  rush  through  the  air  ;  and  the  life,  the 
Bi)ul,  the  presence  fled.  I  was  alone  again 
with  Death.  The  mission  had  been  fulfilled  ; 
the  warning  had  been  given  ;  and  then  my 
eister  passed  away, — for  her  work  with  earth 
was  done.   L_-— _^^_^_^ 

Brave  anocalm  as  tne  strongest  man  that 
ever  fought  on  a  battle  field,  I  stood  up  beside 


my  sister's  body.  I  unfastened  her  last  dress, 
and  threw  it  back  from  her  chest  and  shoul- 
ders ;  I  raised  her  head  and  took  off  the 
bandage  from  round  her  face  ;  and  then  I 
saw  deep  black  bruises  on  her  throat,  the 
marks  of  hands  that  had  grappled  her  from 
behind,  and  that  had  strangled  her.  And 
then  I  looked  further,  and  I  saw  a  small 
wound  below  the  left  breast,  about  which 
hung  two  or  three  clots  of  blood,  that  had 
oozed  up,  despite  all  care  and  knowledge  in 
her  manner  of  murder.  I  knew  then  she 
had  first  been  suffocated,  to  prevent  her 
screams,  and  then  stabbed  where  the  wound 
would  bleed  inwardly,  and  show  no  sign  to 
the  mere  bystander. 

I  covered  her  up  carefully  again.  I  laid 
the  pillow  smooth  and  straight,  and  laid  the 
heavy  head  gently  down.  I  drew  the  shroud 
close  above  the  dreadful  mark  of  murder 
And  then — still  as  calm  and  resolute  as  1 
had  been  ever  since  the  revelation  had  come 
to  me — I  left  the  room,  and  passed  into  my 
husband's  study.  It  was  on  me  to  discover 
all  the  truth. 

His  writing-table  was  locked.  Where  my 
strength  came  from,  I  know  not ;  but,  with  a  •• 
chisel  that  was  lying  on  the  table,  I  pried 
the  drawer  and  broke  the  lock.  I  opened 
it.  There  was  a  long  and  slender  dagger 
lying  there,  red  with  blood ;  a  handful  of 
woman's  hair  rudely  severed  from  the  head, 
lay  near  it.  It  was  my  sister's  hair  ! — that 
wavy  silken  uncurled  auburn  hair  that  I  had 
alwaj'S  loved  and  admired  so  much  !  And 
near  to  these  again,  were  stamps  and  dies, 
and  moulds,  and  plates,  and  handwritings 
with  facsimiles  beneath,  and  banker's 
cheques,  and  a  heap  of  leaden  coin,  and 
piles  of  incomplete  bank-notes ;  and  all  the 
evidences  of  a  coiner's  and  a  forger's  trade, 
— the  suspicion  of  which  had  caused  those 
bitter  quarrellings  between  poor  Ellen  and 
my  husband — the  knowledge  of  which  had 
caused  her  death. 

With  these  things  I  saw  also  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  Ellen  in  my  husband's  hand- 
writing. It  was  an  unfinished  letter,  as  if 
it  had  displeased  him,  and  he  had  made 
another  copy.  It  began  with  these  words — 
no  fear  that  I  should  forget  them  ;  they  are 
burnt  into  my  brain — "  I  never  really  loved 
her,  Ellen ;  she  pleased  me,  only  as  a  doll 
would  please  a  ehild ;  and  I  married  her 
from  pity,  not  from  love.  You,  Ellen,  you 
alone  could  fill  my  heart ;  you  alone  are  mv 

fit   helpmate.       Fly   with    me   Ellen ' 

Here,  the  letter  was  left  unfinished  ;  but  it 
gave  me  enough  to  explain  all  the  meaning 
of  the  first  weeks  of  my  sister's  stay  here, 
and  why  she  had  called  him  villain,  and 
why  he  had  told  her  that  she  might  tell  me, 
and  that  I  would  not  believe. 

I  saw  it  all  now.  1  turned  my  head,  to 
see  my  husband  standing  a  kw  paces  behind 
me.     Good  Heaven  !     I  have  often  thought, 


38 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


was  that  man  the  same  man  I  had  loved  so 
long  and  fondly  ? 

The  strength  of  horror,  not  of  courage,  up- 
held me.  I  knew  he  meant  to  kill  me,  but 
that  did  not  alarm  me  ;  I  only  dreaded  lest 
his  hand  should  touch  me.  It  was  not 
death,  it  was  he  I  shrank  from.  I  believe 
if  he  had  touched  me  then,  I  should  have 
fallen  dead  at  his  feet.  I  stretched  out  my 
arms  in  horror,  to  thrust  him  back,  uttering 
a  piercing  shi-iek ;  and  while  he  made  an 
effort  to  seize  me,  overreaching  himself  in 
the  madness  of  his  fury,  I  rushed  by  him, 
shrieking  still,  and  so  fled  away  into  the 
darkness,  where  I  lived,  oh !  for  many  many 
mouths  1 


When  I  woke  again,  I  found  that  my  poor 
baby  had  died,  and  that  my  husband  had 
gone  none  knew  where.  But  the  fear  of  his 
return  haunted  me.  I  could  get  no  rest  day 
or  night  for  dread  of  him  ;  and  I  felt  going 
mad  with  the  one  hard  thought  for  ever 
pitilessly  pursuing  me — that  I  should  fall 
again  into  his  hands.  I  put  on  widow's 
weeds — for  indeed  am  I  too  truly  widowed ! 
— and  then  I  began  wandering  about ; 
wandering  in  poverty  and  privation,  ex- 
pecting every  moment  to  meet  him  face 
to  face ;  wandering  about,  so  that  I  may 
escape  the  more  easily  when  the  moment 
does  come. 


THE    SEVENTH    POOR    TRAVELLER' 


We  were  all  yet  looking  at  the  Widow, 
after  her  frightened  voice  had  died  away, 
when  the  Book-Pedlar,  apparently  afraid  of 
being  forgotten,  asked  what  did  we  think 
of  his  giving  us  a  Legend  to  wind  up  with  ? 
We  all  said  (except  the  Lawyer,  who  wanted 
a  description  of  the  murderer  to  send  to  the 
Police  Hue  and  Cry,  and  who  was  with  great 
diflficulty  nudged  to  silence  by  the  united 
efforts  of  the  company)  that  we  thought  we 
should  like  it.  So,  the  Book-Pedlar  started 
off  at  score,  thus  : 

Girt  round  with  rugged  mountains 

The  fair  Lake  Constance  lies ! 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected. 

Shine  back  the  starry  skies  ; 
And  watching  each  white  cloudlet 

Float  silently  and  slow. 
You  think  a  piece  of  heaven 

Lies  on  our  earth  below  ! 

Midnight  is  there  :  and  silence 

Enthroned  in  Heaven,  looks  down 
Upon  her  own  calm  mirror, 

Upon  a  sleeping  town  : 
For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  city 

Upon  the  Tyrol  shore, 
Has  stood  upon  Lake  Constance, 

A  thousand  years  and  more. 

Her  battlements  and  towers. 

Upon  their  rocky  steep. 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadow 

For  ages  on  the  deep : 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley, 

A  sacred  legend  know. 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved  one  night. 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred, 
A  Tyrol  maid  had  fled. 


To  serve  in  the  Swiss  valleys, 

And  toil  for  daily  bread  ; 
And  every  year  that  fleeted 

So  silently  and  fast, 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her 

The  memory  of  the  Past. 

She  served  kind,  gentle  masters. 

Nor  asked  for  rest  or  change  ; 
Her  friends  seemed  no  more  new  ones. 

Their  speech  seemed  no  more  strange  ; 
And  when  she  led  her  cattle 

To  pasture  every  day. 
She  ceased  to  look  and  wonder 

On  which  side  Bregenz  lay 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz, 

With  longing  and  with  tears  ; 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded 

In  a  deep  mist  of  years. 
She  needed  not  the  rumors 

Of  Austrian  war  and  strife  ; 
Each  day  she  rose  contented. 

To  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

Yet  when  her  master's  children 

Would  clustering  round  her  stand, 
She  sang  them  the  old  ballads 

Of  her  own  native  land  ; 
Ani  when  at  morn  and  evening 

She  knelt  before  God's  throne, 
The  accents  of  her  childhood 

Rose  to  her  lips  alone 

And  so  she  dwelt ;  the  valley 

More  peaceful  year  by  year  ; 
Yet  suddenly  strange  portents, 

Of  some  great  deed  seemed  near. 
The  golden  corn  was  bending 

Upon  its  fragile  stalk. 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields. 

Paced  up  and  down  in  talk. 


THE   SEVEN   POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


39 


The  men  seemed  stern  and  altered, 

With  looks  cast  on  the  ground  ; 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one, 

The  women  gathered  round  ; 
All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning, 

Or  work,  was  put  away  ; 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid 

To  go  alone  to  play. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow, 

With  strangers  from  the  town. 
Some  secret  plan  discussing. 

The  men  walked  up  and  down. 
Yet,  now  and  then  seemed  watching, 

A  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the  trees, 

That  stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled. 

All  care  and  doubt  were  fled  ; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted, 

The  board  was  nobly  spread, 
The  elder  of  the  village 

Rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand, 
And  cried,  "  We  drink  the  downfall 

"  Of  an  accursed  land  ! 

"  The  night  is  growing  darker, 

"  Ere  one  more  day  is  flown, 
"  Bregenz,  our  foemcn's  stronghold 

"  Bregenz  shall  be  our  own  !" 
The  women  shrank  in  terror 

(Yet  Pride,  too,  had  her  part), 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden 

Felt  death  within  her  heart 

Before  her,  stood  fair  Bregenz, 

Once  more  her  towers  arose ; 
What  were  the  friends  beside  her  ] 

Only  her  country's  foes  ! 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk. 

The  days  of  childhood  flown, 
The  echoes  of  her  mountains. 

Reclaimed  her  as  their  own  ! 

Nothing  she  heard  around  her, 

(Though  shouts  rang  forth  again) 
Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  valleys, 

The  pasture,  and  the  plain  ; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision. 

And  in  her  heart  one  cry. 
That  said,  "  Go  forth,  save  Bregenz, 

And  then,  if  need  be,  die !" 

With  trembling  haste  and  breathless, 

With  noiseless  step,  she  sped  ; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle 

Were  standing  in  the  shed. 
She  loosed  the  strong  white  charger, 

That  fed  from  out  her  hand  ; 
She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his  head 

Towards  her  native  land. 

Out — out  into  the  darkness — 
Faster,  and  still  more  fast ; 

The  smooth  grass  flies  behind  her, 
The  chestnut  wood  is  past ; 


She  looks  up  ;  clouds  are  heavy ; 

Why  is  her  steed  so  slow  1 
Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them. 

Can  pass  them  as  they  go. 

"  Faster  !"  she  cries,  "  O  faster !" 

Eleven  the  church-bells  chime  ; 
"  O  God,"  she  cries,  "  help  Bregenz, 

And  bring  me  there  in  time  !" 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing, 

Or  lowing  of  the  kine. 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight 

The  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness, 

And  looser  throws  the  rein  ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters 

That  dash  above  his  mane. 
How  gallantly,  how  nobly, 

He  struggles  through  the  foam 
And  see — in  the  far  distance. 

Shine  out  the  lights  of  home  ! 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters 

Their  headlong  gallop  check  1 
The  steed  draws  back  in  terror, 

She  leans  above  his  neck 
To  watch  the  flowing  darkness. 

The  bank  is  high  and  steep. 
One  pause — he  staggers  forward. 

And  plunges  in  the  deep. 

Up  the  steep  bank  he  bears  her. 

And  now,  they  rush  again 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregenz, 

That  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregenz, 

Just  as  the  midnight  rings. 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier 

To  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved  !     Ere  daylight 

Her  battlements  are  manned  ; 
Defiance  greets  the  army 

That  marches  on  the  land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic 

Should  endless  fame  be  paid. 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor 

The  noble  Tyrol  maid. 

Three  hundred  years  are  vanished. 

And  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises, 

To  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there,  when  Bregenz  women 

Sit  spinning  in  the  shade. 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving 

The  charger  and  the  Maid. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz, 

By  gateway,  street,  and  tower. 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long. 

And  calls  each  passing  hour  ; 
"  Nine,"  "  ten,"  "  eleven,"  he  cries  aloud. 

And  then  (O  crown  of  Fame  !) 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies. 

He  calls  the  maiden's  name  ! 


THE   ROAD. 


The  stories  being  all  finished,  and  the 
Wassail  too,  wo  broke  up  as  the  Cathedral- 
bell  struck  Twelve.  I  did  not  take  leave  of 
my  Travellers  that  night ;  for,  it  had  come 
into  my  head  to  reappear  in  conjunction 
with  some  hot  coffee,  at  seven  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

As  I  passed  along  the  High  Street,  I 
heard  the  Waits  at  a  distance,  and  struck 
off  to  find  them.  They  vrere  playing  near 
one  of  the  old  gates  of  the  city,  at  the  corner 
of  a  wonderfull}' quaint  row  of  red-brick  tene- 
ments, which  the  clarionet  obligingly  in- 
formed me  were  inhabited  by  the  Minor- 
Canons.  They  had  odd  little  porches  over 
the  doors,  like  sounding-boards  over  old  pul- 
pits ;  and  I  thought  I  should  like  to  see  one 
of  the  Minor-Canons  come  out  upon  his  top 
step,  and  favor  us  with  a  little  Christmas 
discourse  about  the  poor  scholars  of  Ro- 
chester ;  taking  for  his  text  the  words  of 
his  Master,  relative  to  the  devouring  of 
Widows'  houses. 

The  clarionet  was  so  communicative,  and 
my  inclinations  were  (as  they  generally  are), 
of  so  vagabond  a  tendency,  that  I  accompa- 
nied the  Waits  across  an  open  green  called 
the  Vines,  and  assisted — in  the  French  sense 
— at  the  performance  of  two  waltzes,  two 
polkas,  and  three  Irish  melodies,  before  I 
thought  of  my  inn  any  more.  However,  I 
returned  to  it  then,  and  found  a  fiddle  in  the 
kitchen,  and  Ben,  the  wall-eyed  young  man, 
and  two  chambermaids,  circling  round  the 
great  deal  table  with  the  utmost  animation. 

I  had  a  very  bad  night.  It  cannot  have 
been  owing  to  the  turkey,  or  the  beef — and 
the  Wassail  is  out  of  the  question — but,  in 
every  endeavor  that  I  made  to  get  to  sleep, 
I  failed  most  dismally.  Now,  I  was  at  Ba- 
dajos  with  a  fiddle  ;  now,  haunted  by  the 
widow's  murdered  sister.  Now,  I  was  riding 
on  a  little  blind  girl  to  save  my  native  town 
from  sack  and  ruin.  Now,  I  was  expostula- 
ting with  the  dead  mother  of  the  unconscious 
little  sailor-boy ;  now,  dealing  in  diamonds 
in  Sky  Fair;  now,  for  life  or  death  hiding 
mince-pies  under  bed-room  carpets.  For  all 
this,  I  was  never  asleep;  and,  in  whatsoever 
unreasonable  direction  my  mind  rambled, 
the  effigy  of  Master  Richard  Watts  perpetu- 
ally embarrassed  it. 

In  a  word,  I  only  got  out  of  the  worship- 
ful Master  Richard  Watts's  way,  by  getting 
out  of  bed  in  the  dark  at  six  o'clock,  and 
tumbling,  as  my  custom  is,  into  all  the  cold 
water  that  could  be  accumulated  for  the 
(4U) 


purpose.  The  outer  air  was  dull  and  cold 
enough  in  the  street,  when  I  came  down 
there  ;  and  the  one  candle  in  our  supper- 
room  at  Watts's  Charity  looked  as  pale  in 
the  burning,  as  if  it  had  had  a  bad  night 
too.  But,  my  Travellers  had  all  slept 
soundly,  and  they  took  to  the  hot  coffee,  and 
the  piles  of  bread  and  butter  which  Ben  had 
arranged  like  deals  in  a  timber-yard,  aa 
kindly  as  I  could  desire. 

While  it  was  yet  scarcely  daylight,  we  all 
came  out  into  the  street  together,  and  there 
shook  hands.  The  widow  took  the  little 
sailor  towards  Chatham,  where  he  was  to 
find  a  steamboat  for  Sheerness ;  the  lawyer, 
with  an  extremely  knowing  look,  went  his 
own  way,  without  committing  himself  by 
announcing  his  intentions  ;  two  more  struck 
off  by  the  cathedral  and  old  castle  for  Maid- 
stone ;  and  the  book-pedlar  accompanied  me 
over  the  bridge.  As  for  me,  I  was  going  to 
walk,  by  Cobham  Woods,  as  far  upon  my 
way  to  London  as  I  fancied. 

When  I  came  to  the  stile  and  footpath  by 
which  I  was  to  diverge  from  the  main-road, 
I  bade  farewell  to  my  last  remaining  Poor 
Traveller,  and  pursued  my  way  alone.  And 
now,  the  mist  began  to  rise  in  the  most 
beautiful  manner,  and  the  sun  to  shine  :  and 
as  I  went  on  through  the  bracing  air,  see- 
ing the  hoar  frost  sparkle  everywhere,  I  felt 
as  if  all  Nature  shared  in  the  joy  of  the  great 
Birthday, 

Going  through  the  woods,  the  softness  of 
my  tread  upon  the  mossy  ground  and  among 
the  brown  leaves,  enhanced  the  Christmas 
sacredness  by  which  I  felt  surrounded.  As 
the  whitened  stems  environed  me,  I  thought 
how  the  Founder  of  the  time  had  never 
raised  his  benignant  hand,  save  to  bless  and 
heal,  except  in  the  case  of  one  unconscious 
tree.  By  Cobham  Hall,  I  came  to  the  vil- 
lage, and  the  churchyard  where  the  dead 
had  been  quietly  buried,  "  in  the  sure  and 
certain  hope"  which  Christmas  time  in- 
spired. What  children  could  I  see  at  play, 
and  not  be  loving  of,  recalling  who  had 
loved  them  !  No  garden  that  I  passed,  was 
out  of  unison  with  the  day,  for  I  remember- 
ed that  the  tomb  was  in  a  garden,  and  that 
"  she  supposing  him  to  be  the  gardener," 
had  said,  "  Sir,  if  thou  have  borne  him 
hence,  tell  me  where  thou  hast  laid  him,  and 
I  will  take  him  away,"  In  time,  the  distant 
river  with  the  ships,  came  full  in  view,  and 
with  it  pictures  of  the  poor  fishermen  mend- 
ing their  nets,  who  arose  and  followed  him 


THE   SEVEN  POOR  TRAVELLERS. 


41 


— of  the  teaching  of  the  people  from  a  ship 
pushed  off  a  little  way  from  shore,  by  reason 
of  the  multitude — of  a  majestic  figure  walk- 
ing on  the  water,  in  the  loneliness  of  night. 
My  very  shadow  on  the  ground  was  eloquent 
of  Christmas  ;  for,  did  not  the  people  lay  their 
sick  where  the  mere  shadows  of  the  men 
who  had  heard  and  seen  him,  might  fall  as 
they  passed  along  ? 

Thus,  Christmas  begirt  me,  far  and  near, 
until  I  had  come  to  Blackheath,  and  had 
walked  down  the  long  vista  of  gnarled  old 


trees  in  Greenwich  Park,  and  was  being 
steam-rattled,  through  the  mists  now  closing 
in  once  more,  towards  the  lights  of  London. 
Brightly  they  shone,  but  not  so  brightly  as 
my  own  fire  and  the  brighter  faces  around 
it,  when  we  came  together  to  celebrate  the 
day.  And  there  I  told  of  worthy  Master 
Richard  Watts,  and  of  my  supper  with 
the  Six  Poor  Travellers  who  were  neither 
Rogues  nor  Proctors,  and  from  that  hour 
to  this,  I  have  never  seen  one  of  them 
again. 


NINE 


NEW  STORIES  BY  THE  CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


•-•^rfN/S^^ -^  ^^^'^rf^^- 


THE    SCHOOLBOY'S    STORY. 


Beixg  rather  young  at  present — I  am 
getting  on  in  years,  but  still  I  am  rather 
young — I  have  no  particular  adventures  of 
my  own  to  fall  Ijack  upon.  It  wouldn't 
much  interest  anybody  here,  I  suppose,  to 
know  what  a  screw  the  Reverend  is,  or  what 
a  griffin  she  is,  or  how  they  do  stick  it  into 
parents — particularly  hair-cutting  and  med- 
ical attendance.  One  of  our  fellows  was 
charged  in  his  half's  account  twelve  and 
six-pence  for  two  pills — tolerably  profitable 
at  six  and  threepence  a-piece,  I  should  think 
— and  he  never  took  them  either,  but  put 
them  up  the  sleeve  of  his  jacket. 

As  to  the  beef,  it's  shameful.  It's  not 
beef.  Regular  beef  is't  veins.  You  can  chew 
regular  beef.  Besides  which,  there's  gravy 
to  regular  beef,  and  you  never  see  a  drop  to 
ours.  Another  of  our  fellows  went  home 
ill,  and  heard  the  family  doctor  tell  his 
father  that  he  couldn't  account  for  his  com- 
plaint unless  it  was  the  beer.  Of  course  it 
was  the  beer,  and  well  it  might  be  ! 
J  However,  beef  and  Old  Cheeseman  are  two 
uiflerent  things.  So  is  beer.  It  was  Old 
Cheeseman  I  meant  to  tell  about ;  not  the 
manner  in  which  our  fellows  get  their  con- 
stitutions destroyed  fot  the  sake  of  profit 


most  he  remembered  about  it.  He  never 
went  home  for  the  holidays.  His  accounta 
(he  never  learnt  any  extras)  were  sent  to  a 
Bank,  and  the  Bank  paid  them ;  and  he  had 
a  brown  suit  twice  a  year,  and  went  into 
boots  at  twelve.  They  were  always  too  big 
for  him,  too. 

/  In  the  Midsummer  holidays,  some  of  our 
tellows  who  lived  within  walking  distance, 
used  to  come  back  and  climb  the  trees  outside 
the  playground  wall,  on  purpose  to  look  at 
Old  Cheeseman  reading  there  by  himself. 
He  was  always  as  mild  as  the  tea — and  that's 
pretty  mild,  I  should  hope ! — so  when  they 
whistled  to  him,  he  looked  up  and  nodded  ; 
and  when  they  said  "  Halloa  Old  Cheeseman, 
what  have  you  had  for  dinner?"  he  said 
"  Boiled  mutton ;"  and  when  they  said 
"  An't  it  solitary,  Old  Cheeseman  ?"  he  said 
"  It  is  a  little  dull  sometimes  ;"  and  then 
they  said  "Well,  good  bye,  Old  Cheeseman  !" 
and  climbed  down  again.  Of  course  it  was 
imposing  on  Old  Cheeseman  to  give  him 
nothing  but  boiled  mutton  through  a  whole 
Vacation,  but  that  was  just  like  the  system. 
When  they  didn't  give  him  boiled  mutton 
they  gave  him  rice  pudding,  pretending  it 
was  a  treat.     And  saved  the  butcher. 


Why,  look  at  the  pie-crust  alone.  There'rj'  So  Old  Cheeseman  went  on.  The  holidays 
no  flakiness  in  it.  It's  solid — like  damp  brought  him  into  other  trouble  besides  the 
lead.  Then  our  fellows  get  nightmares,  and  loneliness  ;  because  when  the  fellows  began 
are  bolstered  for  calling  out  and  waking  to  come  back,  not  wanting  to,  he  was  always 
other  fellows.     Who  can  wonder !  1  glad  to  see  them:  which  was  aggravating 

Old  Cheeseman  one  night  waked  in  his  I  when  they  were  not  at  all  glad  to  see  him, 
sleep,  put  his  hat  on  over  his  night-cap.  got  |  and  so  he  got  his  head  knocked  against  walls, 
hold  of  a  fishing-rod  and  a  cricket-bat,  and  and  that  was  the  way  his  nose  bled.  But  he 
•went  down  into  the  parlor,  where  they  I  was  a  favorite  in  general.  Once,  a  subscrip- 
naturally  thought  from  his  appearance  he  |  tion  was  raised  for  him  ;  and,  to  keep  up  his 
was  a  Ghost.     Why,  he  never  would  have  I  spirits,  he  was  presented  before  the  holidays 


done  that,  if  his  meals  had  been  wholesome 
When  we  all  begin  to  walk  in  our  sleeps,  I 
suppose  they'll  be  sorry  for  it. 

Old  Cheeseman  wasn't  second  Latin  Mas- 
ter then  ;  he  was  a  fellow  himself.     He  was 


with  two  white  mice,  a  rabbit,  a  pigeon,  and 
a  beautiful  puppy.  Old  Cheeseman  cried 
about  it,  especially  soon  afterwards,  when 
they  all  ate  one  another. 

Of  course  Old  Cheeseman  used  to  be  called 


first  brought  there,  very  small,  in  a  post-  by  the  names  of  all  sorts  of  cheeses.  Double 
chaise,  by  a  woman  who  was  always  taking  Glo'sterman,  Family  Cheshireman,  Dutch- 
snuff  and  shaking  him — and   that  was  the   man,   North    Wiltshireman,   and   all  that 

(43) 


44 


DIClvEXS'   XEW   STORIES. 


But  he  never  minded  it.  And  I  don't  mean 
to  say  he  was  old  in  point  of  3"ears,  because 
he  wasn't,  only  he  was  called,  from  the  first. 
Old  Cheeseman.   ;  x' 

At  last.  Old  Chy^eseman  was  made  second 
Latin  Master.  He  was  brnujilit  in  one  morn- 
ing at  the  beginning  of  a  new  half,  and  pre- 
sented to  the  school  in  that  capacity  as  "  Mr. 
Cheeseman."  Then  our  fellows  all  agreed 
that  Old  Cheeseman  was  a  spy,  and  a  de- 
serter, who  had  gone  over  to  the  enemy's 
camp,  and  sold  himself  for  gold.  It  was  no 
excuse  for  him  tliat  he  had  sold  himself  for 
very  little  gold — two  pound  ten  a  quarter, 
and  his  washing,  as  was  reported.  It  was 
decided  by  a  Parliament  which  sat  about  it, 
that  Old  Cheeseman's  mercenary  motives 
could  alone  l)e  taken  into  account,  and  that 
he  had  "  coined  our  blood  f<jr  drachmas." 
The  Parliament  took  the  expression  out  of 
the  quarrel  scene  between  Brutus  and  Cas- 
sius. 

When  it  was  settled  in  this  strong  way 
tliat  Old  Cheeseman  was  a  tremendous  trai- 
tor, who  had  wormed  himself  Into  our  fellows' 
secrets  on  purpose  to  get  himself  into  favor 
by  giving  up  everything  he  knew,  all  cour- 
ageous fellows  were  invited  to  come  forward 
and  enrol  themselves  in  a  Society  for  making 
a  set  against  him.  The  President  of  the 
Society  was  First  boy,  named  Bob  Tarter. 
Ilis  father  was  in  the  "West  Indies,  and  he 
owned,  himself,  that  his  father  was  worth 
millions.  lie  had  great  power  among  our 
fellows,  and  he  Avrote  a  parody,  beginning, 

"  Who  made  believe  to  be  so  meek 
That  we  could  hardly  hear  him  speak, 
Yet  turned  out  an  Informinir  Sneak  ? 
Old  Cheeseman." 

— and  on  in  that  way  through  more  than  a 
dozen  verses,  which  he  used  to  go  and  sing, 
every  morning,  close  by  the  new  master's 
desk.  He  trained  one  of  the  low  boys  too, 
a  rosy  cheeked  little  Brass  who  didn't  care 
what  he  did,  to  go  up  to  him  with  his  Latin 
Grammar  one  morning,  and  say  it  so: — 
Kominaficus  jyronomiaiun — Old  Cheeseman, 
raro  exprimitiir — was  never  suspected,  nisi 
distinctionis — of  being  an  informer,  au  em- 
phasis gratia — until  he  proved  one.  Ut — 
for  instance,  Vos  damnastis — when  he  sold 
the  boys.  Quasi — as  though,  diVa^ — he  should 
say,  PretcBrea  nemo — I'm  a  Judas  !     All  this 

f  reduced  a  great  effect  on  Old  Cheeseman. 
le  had  neyer  had  much  hair  ;  but  what  he 
had,  began  to  get  thinner  and  thinner  every 
day.  He  grew  paler  and  more  worn  ;  and 
sometimes  of  an  evening  he  was  seen  sitting 
at  his  desk  with  a  precious  long  snuff  to  his 
candle,  and  his  hands  before  his  face,  crying. 
But  no  member  of  the  Society  could  pity 
him,  even  if  he  felt  inclined,  because,  the 
President  said  it  was  Old  Cheeseman's  con- 
science. 

So  Old  Cheeseman  went  on,  and  didn't  he 


lead  a  miserable  life !  Of  course  the  Rev 
erend  turned  up  his  nose  at  him,  and  of 
course  she  did — because  both  of  them  always 
do  at  all  the  masters,  but  he  suffered  from 
the  fellows  most,  and  he  suffered  from  them 
constantly.  lie  never  told  about  it,  that  the 
society  could  find  out ;  but  he  got  no  credit 
for  that,  because  the  President  said  it  was 
Old  Cheeseman's  cowardice. 

He  had  only  one  friend  in  the  world,  and 
that  one  was  almost  as  powerless  as  he  was, 
for  it  was  only  Jane.  Jane  was  a  sort  of 
wardrobe-woman  to  our  fellows,  and  took 
care  of  the  boxes.  She  came,  at  first,  I 
believe,  as  a  kind  of  apprentice,  some  of 
our  fellows  say  from  a  Charity,  but  /  don't 
know,  and  after  her  time  was  out,  had 
stopped  at  so  much  a  year.  So  little  a  year, 
perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  for  it  is  far  more 
likely.  However,  she  had  put  some  pounds 
in  the  Savings  Bank,  and  she  was  a  very 
nice  young  woman.  She  was  not  quite 
pretty  ;  but  she  had  a  very  frank,  honest, 
bright  face,  and  all  our  fellows  were  fond 
of  her.  She  was  uncommonly  neat  and 
cheerful,  and  uncommonly  comfortable  and 
kind.  And  if  anything  was  the  matter  with 
a  fellow's  mother,  he  always  went  and 
showed  the  letter  to  Jane. 

Jane  was  Old  Cheeseman's  friend.  The 
more  the  Soelety  went  against  him,  the 
more  she  stood  by  him.  She  used  to  give 
him  a  good-humored  look  out  of  her  still- 
room  window,  sometimes,  that  seemed  to 
set  him  up  for  the  day.  She  used  to  pass  out 
of  the  orchard  and  the  kitchen-garden  (al- 
ways kept  locked,  I  believe  you  Ij  throutrh 
the  play-ground,  when  she  might  have  gone 
the  other  way,  only  to  give  a  turn  of  her 
head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Keep  up  your 
spirits  !"  to  Old  Cheeseman.  His  slip  "of  a 
room  was  so  fresh  and  orderly,  that  it  was 
well  known  who  looked  after  it  while  he 
was  at  his  desk  ;  and  when  our  fellows  saw 
a  smoking  hot  dumpling  on  his  plate  at 
dinner,  they  knew  with  indignation  who 
had  sent  it  up. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  Society 
resolved,  after  a  quantity  of  meeting  and 
debating,  that  Jane  should  be  requested  to 
cut  Old  Cheeseman  dead  ;  and  that  if  she 
refused,  she  must  be  sent  to  Coventry  her- 
self. So  a  deputation,  headed  by  the  Presi- 
dent, was  appointed  to  wait  on  Jane,  and 
inform  her  of  the  vote  the  Society  had  been 
under  the  painful  necessity  of  passing.  She 
was  very  much  respected  for  all  her  good 
qualities,  and  there  was  a  story  of  her  hav- 
ing once  waylaid  the  Reverend  in  his  own 
study,  and  got  a  fellow  off  from  severe  pun- 
ishment, of  her  own  kind  comfortable  heart. 
So  the  deputation  didn't  much  like  the  job. 
However,  they  went  up,  and  the  President 
told  Jane  all  about  it.  Upon  which  Jane 
turned  very  red,  burst  into  tears,  Informed 
the  President  and  deputation,  in  a  way  not 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BY   THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


45 


at  all  like  her  usual  Tvay,  that  they  were  a 
parcel  of  malicious  young  savages,  and 
turned  the  whole  respected  body  out  of  the 
room.  Consequently,  it  was  entered  in  the 
Society's  book  (kept  in  astronomical  cypher, 
for  fear  of  detection),  that  all  communica- 
tion with  Jane  was  interdicted ;  and  the 
President  addressed  the  members  on  this 
convincing  instance  of  Old  Cheeseman's 
undermining. 

But  Jane  was  true  to  Old  Cheesemau  as 
Old  Cheeseman  was  false  to  our  fellows — 
in  their  opinion  at  all  events — and  steadily 
continued  to  be  his  only  friend.  It  was  a 
great  exasperation  to  the  Society,  because 
Jane  was  as  much  a  loss  to  them  as  she  was 
a  gain  to  him;  and  being  more  inveterate 
against  him  than  ever,  they  treated  him 
worse  than  ever.  At  last,  one  morning,  his 
desk  stood  empty,  his  room  was  peeped  into 
and  found  to  be  vacant,  and  a  whisper  went 
about  among  the  pale  faces  of  our  fellows  that 
Old  Cheeseman,  unable  to  bear  it  any  longer, 
had  got  up  early  and  drowned  himself. 

The  mysterious  looks  of  the  other  masters 
after  breakfast,  and  the  evident  fact  that  Old 
Cheeseman  was  not  expected,  confirmed  the 
Society  in  this  opinion.  Some  began  to  dis- 
cuss whether  the  President  was  liable  to 
hanging  or  only  transportation  for  life,  and 
the  President's  face  showed  a  great  anxiety 
to  know  which.  However,  he  said  that  a 
jury  of  his  countrymen  should  lind  him 
game  ;  and  that  in  his  address  he  should  put 
it  to  them  to  lay  their  hands  upon  their 
hearts,  and  say  whether  they,  as  Britons, 
approved  of  Informers,  and  how  they  thought 
they  would  like  it  themselves.  Some  of  the 
Society  considered  that  ho  had  better  run 
away  until  he  found  a  Forest,  where  he 
might  change  clothes  with  a  woodcutter,  and 
stain  his  face  with  blackberries ;  but  the 
majority  believed  that  if  he  stood  his  ground, 
his  father — belonging,  as  he  did,  to  the 
West  Indies,  and  being  worth  millions — 
could  buy  him  off. 

All  our  fellows'  hearts  beat  fast  when  the 
Reverend  came  in,  and  made  a  sort  of  a 
Roman,  or  a  Field  Marshal,  of  himself  with 
the  ruler ;  as  he  always  did  before  delivering 
an  address.  But  their  fears  were  nothing 
to  their  astonishment  when  he  came  out 
with  the  story  that  Old  Cheeseman,  "  so  long 
our  respected  friend  and  fellow-pilgrim  in 
the  pleasant  plains  of  knowledge,"  he  called 
him — 0  yes  !  I  dare  say  !  Much  of  that ! — 
was  the  orphan  child  of  a  disinherited  young 
lady  who  had  married  against  her  father's 
wish,  and  whose  young  husband  had  died, 
and  who  had  died  of  sorrow  herself,  and 
whose  unfortunate  baby  (Old  Cheeseman) 
had  been  brought  up  at  the  cost  of  a  grand- 
father who  would  never  consent  to  see  it, 
baby,  boy,  or  man  :  which  grandfather  was 
now  dead,  and  serve  him  right — that's  mi/ 
putting  in — and  which  grandfather's  largo 


property,  there  being  no  will,  was  now,  and 
all  of  a  sudden  and  for  ever.  Old  Cheese- 
man's  !  Our  so  long  respected  friend  and 
fellow-pilgrim  in  the  pleasant  plains  of 
knowledge,  the  Reverend  wound  up  a  lot 
of  bothering  quotations  by  saying,  would 
"  come  among  us  once  more"  that  day  fort- 
night, when  he  desired  to  take  leave  of  us 
himself  in  a  more  particular  manner.  With 
these  words,  he  stared  severely  round  at 
our  fellows,  and  went  solemnly  out. 

There  was  precious  consternation  among 
the  members  of  the  Society  now.  Lots  of 
them  wanted  to  resign,  and  lots  more  began 
to  try  to  make  out  tiiat  they  had  never  be- 
longed to  it.  However,  the  President  stuck 
up,  and  said  tliat  they  must  stand  or  fall 
together,  and  that  if  a  breach  was  made  it 
should  be  over  his  body — which  was  meant 
to  encourage  the  Society :  but  it  didn't. 
The  President  further  said,  he  would  con- 
sider the  position  in  which  they  stood,  and 
would  give  them  his  best  opinion  and  advii^e 
in  a  few  days.  This  was  eagerly  looked  for, 
as  he  knew  a  good  deal  of  the  world  on  ac- 
count of  his  father's  being  in  the  West 
Indies. 

After  days  and  days  of  hard  thinking, 
and  drawing  armies  all  over  his  slate,  the 
President  called  our  fellows  together,  and 
made  the  matter  clear.  He  said  it  was  plain 
that  when  Old  Cheeseman  came  on  the  ap- 
pointed day,  his  first  revenge  would  be  to 
impeach  the  Society,  and  have  it  flogged  all 
round.  After  witnessing  with  joy  the  tor- 
ture of  his  enemies,  and  gloating  over  the 
cries  which  agony  would  extort  from  them, 
the  probability  was  that  he  would  invite  the 
Reverend,  on  pretence  of  conversation,  into 
a  private  room — say  the  parlor  into  which 
parents  were  shown,  where  the  two  great 
globes  were  which  were  never  used — and 
would  there  reproach  him  with  the  various 
frauds  and  oppressions  he  had  endured  at 
his  hands.  At  the  close  of  his  observations, 
he  would  make  a  signal  to  a  Prize-tighter 
concealed  in  the  passage,  who  would  then 
appear  and  pitch  into  the  Reverend  till  he 
was  left  insensible.  Old  Cheeseman  would 
then  make  Jane  a  present  of  from  five  to 
ten  pounds,  and  would  leave  the  establish- 
ment in  fiendish  triumph. 

The  President  explained  that  against  the 
parlor  part,  or  the  Jane  part,  of  these 
arrangements  he  had  nothing  to  say  ;  but, 
on  the  part  of  the  Society,  he  counselled 
deadly  resistance.  With  this  view  he  re- 
commended that  all  available  desks  should 
be  tilled  with  stones,  and  that  the  firs;  word 
of  the  complaint  should  be  the  signal  to 
every  fellow  to  let  fly  at  Old  Cheeseman. 
The  bold  advice  put  the  Society  in  better 
spirits,  and  was  unanimously  taken.  A 
post  about  Old  Cheeseman's  size  was  put 
up  in  the  playground,  and  all  our  fellcwa 
practised  at  it  till  it  was  dented  all  over. 


4b 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


"When  the  day  came,  and  places  were 
called,  every  fellow  eat  down  in  a  tremble. 
There  had  been  much  discussing  and  dis- 
puting as  to  how  Old  Cheeseman  would 
come  ;  but  it  was  the  general  opinion  that 
he  would  appear  in  a  sort  of  a  triumphal 
car  drawn  by  four  horses,  with  two  livery 
servants  in  front,  and  the  Prize-fighter  in 
disguise  up  behind.  So  all  our  fellows  sat 
listening  for  the  sound  of  wheels.  But  no 
wheels  were  heard,  for  Old  Cheeseman 
walked  after  all,  and  came  into  the  school 
without  any  preparation.  Pretty  much  as 
he  used  to  be,  only  dressed  in  black. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  Reverend,  pre- 
senting him,  "  our  so  long  respected  friend 
and  fellow-pilgrim  in  the  pleasant  plains  of 
knowledge,  is  desirous  to  offer  a  word  or 
two.     Attention,  gentlemen,  one  and  all !" 

Every  fellow  stole  his  hand  into  his  desk, 
and  looked  at  the  President.  The  President 
was  all  ready,  and  taking  aim  at  Old  Cheese- 
man with  his  eyes. 

What  did  Old  Cheeseman  then,  but  walk 
up  to  his  old  desk,  look  round  him  with  a 
queer  smile  as  if  there  was  a  tear  in  his  eye, 
and  began  in  a  quavering  mild  voice,  "  My 
dear  companions  and  old  friends  I" 

Every  fellow's  hand  came  out  of  his  desk, 
and  the  President  suddenly  began  to  cry. 

"  My  dear  companions  and  old  friends," 
said  Old  Cheeseman,  "  you  have  heard  of 
my  good  fortune.  I  have  passed  so  many 
years  under  this  roof — my  entire  life  so  far, 
I  may  say — that  I  hope  you  have  been  glad 
to  hear  of  it  for  my  sake.  I  could  never 
enj(ty  it  without  exchanging  congratulations 
with  you.  If  we  have  ever  misunderstood 
one  another  at  all,  pray  my  dear  boys  let  us 
forgive  and  forget.  I  have  a  great  tender- 
:toss  for  you,  and  I  am  sure  you  return  it. 
I  want,  iu  the  fullness  of  a  grateful  heart,  to 
shake  hands  with  you  every  one.  I  have 
come  back  to  do  it,  if  you  please,  my  dear 
boys." 

Since  the  President  had  begun  to  cry, 
several  other  fellows  had  broken  out  here 
and  there  ;  but  now,  when  Old  Cheeseman 
began  with  him  as  first  boy,  laid  his  left 
hand  affectionately  on  his  shoulder  and  gave 
him  his  right ;  and  when  the  President  said 
"  Indeed  I  don't  deserve  it,  sir ;  upon  my 
honor  I  don't ;"  there  was  sobbing  and  cry- 
ing all  over  the  school.  Every  other  fellow 
said  he  didn't  deserve  it,  much  in  the  same 
way ;  but  Old  Cheeseman,  not  minding  that 
a  bit,  went  cheerfully  round  to  every  boy, 
and  wound  up  with  every  master — finishing 
off  the  Reverend  last. 

Then  a  snivelling  little  chap  in  a  corner, 
■who  was  always  under  some  punishment  or 
other,  set  up  a  shrill  cry  of  "  Success  to  Old 
Cheeseman !  Hooray !"  The  Reverend 
glared  upon  him,  and  said  "Mr.  Cheeseman, 
Sir."  But,  Old  Cheeseman  protesting  that 
he  liked  his  old  name  a  great  deal  better 


than  his  new  one,  all  our  fellows  took  up  the 
cry ;  and,  for  I  don't  know  how  many 
minutes,  there  was  such  a  thundering  of 
feet  and  hands,  and  such  a  roaring  of  Old 
Cheeseman,  as  never  was  heard. 

After  that,  there  was  a  spread  in  the 
dining  room  of  the  most  magnificent  kind. 
Fowls,' tongues,  preserves,  fruits,  confection 
eries,  jellies,  neguses,  barley-sugar  temples, 
trifles,  crackers — eat  all  you  can  and  pocket 
what  you  like — all  at  Old  Cheeseman's  ex- 
pense. After  that,  speeches,  whole  holiday, 
double  and  treble  sets  of  all  manners  of 
games,  donkeys,  pony-chaises  and  drive 
yourself,  dinner  for  all  the  masters  at  the 
Seven  Bells,  (twenty  pounds  a-head  our 
fellows  estimated  it  at,)  an  annual  holiday 
and  feast  fixed  for  that  day  every  year,  and 
another  on  Old  Cheeseman's  birthday — 
Reverend  bound  down  before  the  fellows  to 
allow  it,  so  that  he  could  never  back  out — 
all  at  Old  Cheeseman's  expense. 

And  didn't  our  fellows  go  down  in  a  body 
and  cheer  outside  the  Seven  Bells  ?     0  no  ! 

But  there's  something  else  besides.  Don't 
look  at  the  next  story-teller,  for  there's  more 
yet.  Next  day,  it  was  resolved  that  the 
Society  should  make  it  up  with  Jane,  and 
then  be  dissolved.  What  do  you  think  of 
Jane  being  gone,  though  !  "AVhat?  Gone 
for  ever  ?"  said  our  fellows,  with  long  faces. 
"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  was  all  the  answer  they 
could  get.  None  of  the  people  about  the 
house  would  say  anything  more.  At  length, 
the  first  boy  took  upon  himself  to  ask  the 
Reverend  whether  our  old  friend  Jane  was 
really  gone?  The  Reverend  (he  has  got  a 
daughter  at  home — turn-up  nose,  and  red) 
replied  severely,  "  Yes  sir,  Miss  Pitt  is 
gone."  The  idea  of  calling  Jane  Miss  Pitt! 
Some  said  she  had  been  sent  away  in  dis- 
grace for  taking  money  from  Old  Chet^seman ; 
others  said  she  had  gone  into  Old  Cheese- 
man's service  at  a  rise  of  ten  pounds  a  j'ear. 
All  that  our  fellows  knew,  was,  she  was 
gone. 

It  was  two  or  three  months  afterwards, 
when,  one  afternoon,  an  open  carriage  stop- 
ped at  the  cricket-field,  just  outside  bounds, 
with  a  lady  and  gentleman  in  it,  who  looked 
at  the  game  a  long  time  and  stood  up  to  see 
it  played.  Nobody  thought  much  about 
them,  until  the  same  little  snivelling  chap 
came  in,  against  all  rules,  from  the  post 
where  he  was  Scout,  and  said,  "  it's  Jane !" 
Both  Elevens  forgot  the  game  directly,  and 
ran  crowding  round  the  carriage.  It  was 
Janel  In  such  a  bonnet!  And  if  you'll 
believe  me,  Jane  was  married  to  Old  Cheese- 
man. 

It  soon  became  quite  a  regular  thing  when 
oitr  fellows  were  hard  at  it  in  the  play- 
ground, to  see  a  carriage  at  the  low  part  of 
the  waU  where  it  joins  the  high  part,  and  a 
lady  and  gentleman  standing  up  in  it,  look- 
ing over.     The  gentleman  was  always  Old 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BY  THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


Cheeseman,  and  the  lady  was  always 
Jane. 

The  first  time  I  ever  saw  them,  I  saw 
them  in  that  way.  There  had  been  a  good 
many  changes  among  our  fellows  then,  and 
it  had  turned  out  that  Bob  Tarter's  father 
wasn't  worth  millions !  He  wasn't  worth 
anything.  Bob  had  gone  for  a  soldier,  and 
Old  Cheeseman  had  purchased  his  discharge. 
But  that's  not  the  carriage.  The  carriage 
stopped,  and  all  our  fellows  stopped  aa  soon 
as  it  was  seen. 

"  So  you  have  never  sent  me  to  Coventry 
after  all !"  said  the  lady,  laughing  as  our 
fellows  swarmed  up  the  wall  to  shake  hands 
with  her,     "Are  you  never  going  to  do  it?" 

"  Never  !  never  !  never!"  on  all  sides. 

I  didn't  understand  what  she  meant  then, 
but  of  course  I  do  now.  I  was  very  much 
pleased  with  her  face  though,  and  with  her 
good  way,  and  I  couldn't  help  looking  at 
her — and  at  him  too — with  all  our  fellows 
clustering  so  joyfully  about  them. 

They  soon  took  notice  of  me  as  a  new  boy, 
so  I  thought  I  might  as  well  swarm  up  the 
wall  myself,  and  shake  hands  with  them  as 
the  rest  did.     I  was  quite  as  glad  to  see  them 


as  the  rest  were,  and  was  quite  as  familiar 
with  them  in  a  moment. 

"  Only  a  fortnight  now,"  said  Old  Cheese- 
man, "  to  the  holidays.  Who  stops?  Any- 
body ?" 

A  good  many  fingers  pointed  at  me,  and 
a  good  many  voices  cried,  "He  does!" 
For  it  was  the  year  when  you  were  all  away, 
and  rather  low  I  was  about  it,  I  can  tell  you. 

"  Oh  !"  said  Old  Cheeseman.  "  But  it's 
solitary  here  in  the  holiday  time.  He  had 
better  come  to  us." 

So  I  went  to  their  delightful  house,  and 
was  as  happy  as  I  could  possibly  be.  They 
understand  how  to  conduct  themselves  to- 
wards boys,  they  do.  When  they  take  a  boy 
to  the  play,  for  instance,  they  do  take  him. 
They  don't  go  in  after  it's  begun,  or  come 
out  before  it's  over.  They  know  how  to 
bring  a  boy  up,  too.  Look  at  their  own  ! 
Though  he  is  very  little  as  yet,  what  a  capi- 
tal boy  he  is  !  Why,  my  next  favorite  to 
Mrs.  Cheeseman  and  Old  Cheeseman,  is 
young  Cheeseman. 

So,  now  I  have  told  you  all  I  know  about 
Old  Cheeseman.  And  it's  not  much  after 
all,  I  am  afraid.     Is  it 


■~»><VN/^^^'*>/V\<M~~-~ 


THE    OLD    LADY'S    STOEY 


I  HATE  never  told  you  my  secret,  my  dear 
—nieces.  However,  this  Christmas,  which 
may  well  be  the  last  to  an  old  woman,  I  will 
give  the  whole  story  ;  fur  though  it  is  a 
strange  story,  and  a  sad  one.  it  is  true ;  and 
what  sin  there  was  in  it  I  trust  I  may  have 
expiated  by  my  tears  and  my  repentance. 
Perhaps  the  last  expiation  of  all  is  this  pain- 
ful confession. 

We  were  very  young  at  the  time,  Lucy 
and  I,  and  the  neighbors  said  we  were  pretty. 
So  we  were,  I  believe,  though  entirely  difier- 
ent ;  for  Lucy  was  quiet,  and  fair,  and  I  was 
full  of  life  and  spirits  ;  wild  beyond  any 
power  of  control,  and  reckless.  I  was  the 
elder  by  two  years ;  but  more  fit  to  be  in 
leading  strings  myself  than  to  guide  or 
govern  my  sister.  But  she  was  so  good,  so 
quiet,  and  so  wise,  that  she  needed  no  one's 
guidance  ;  for  if  advice  was  to  be  given,  it 
was  she  who  gave  it,  not  I ;  and  I  never 
knew  her  judgment  or  perception  fail.  She 
was  the  darling  of  the  house.  My  mother 
had  died  soon  after  Lucy  was  born.  A 
picture  in  the  dining-room  of  her,  in  spite 
of  all  the  difference  v^f  dress,  was  exactly 
like  Lucy  ;  and,  as  Lucy  was  now  seventeen 
and   my  mother   had   been   only  eighteen 


when  it  was  taken,  there  was  no  discrepancy 
of  years. 

One  Allhallow's  eve  a  party  of  us — all 
young  girls,  not  one  of  us  twenty  years  of 
age — were  trying  our  fortunes  round  the 
drawing-room  fire  :  throwmg  nuts  into  the 
brightest  blaze,  to  hear  if  mythic  "  He"  's 
loved  any  of  us,  and  in  what  proportion  ;  or 
pouring  hot  lead  into  water,  to  find  cradles 
and  rings,  or  purses  and  cofiins  :  or  breaking 
the  whites  of  eggs  into  tumblers  half  full  of 
water,  and  then  drawing  up  the  white  into 
pictures  of  the  future — the  prettiest  experi- 
ment of  all.  I  remember  Lucy  could  only 
make  a  recumbent  figure  of  hers,  like  a 
marble  monument  in  miniature  :  and  I,  a 
maze  of  masks  and  skulls  and  things  that 
looked  like  dancing  apes  or  imps,  and  vapory 
lines  that  did  not  require  much  imagination 
to  fashion  into  ghosts  or  spirits  ;  for  they 
were  clearly  human  in  the  outline,  but  thin 
and  vapory.  And  we  all  laughed  a  great 
deal,  and  tea.sod  one  another,  and  were  as 
full  of  fun  and  mischief,  and  innocence  and 
thoughtlessness,  as  a  nest  of  young  birds. 

There  was  a  certain  room  at  the  other  end 
of  our  rambling  old  manor-house,  which 
was  said  to  be  haunted,  and  which  my  father 


48 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


had  therefore  discontinued  as  a  dwelling- 
room,  80  that  we  children  might  not  be 
frightened  by  foolish  servants  ;  and  he  had 
made  it  into  a  lumber-place — a  kind  of 
ground-floor  granary — where  no  one  had 
any  business.  Well,  it  was  proposed  that 
one  of  us  should  go  into  this  room  alone, 
lock  the  door,  stand  before  the  glass,  pare 
and  eat  an  apple  very  deliberately,  looking 
tixedly  in  the  glass  all  the  time  ;  and  then, 
if  the  mind  never  once  wandered,  the  future 
husband  would  be  clearly  shown  in  the  glass. 
As  I  was  always  the  foolhardy  girl  of  every 
party,  and  was,  moreover,  vei-y  desirous  of 
seeing  that  apocryphal  individual,  my  future 
husband,  (whose  non-appearance  I  used  to 
wonder  at  and  bewail  in  secret)  I  was  glad 
enough  to  make  the  trial,  notwithstanding 
the  entreaties  of  some  of  the  more  timid. 
Lucy,  above  all,  clung  to  me,  and  besought 
me  earnestly  not  to  go — at  last,  almost  with 
tears.  But  my  pride  of  courage,  and  my 
curiosity,  and  a  certain  nameless  feeling  of 
attraction,  were  too  strong  for  me.  Ilaughed 
Lucy  and  her  abettors  into  silence  ;  uttered 
half  a  dozen  bravadoes  ;  and  taking  up  a 
bed-room  candle,  passed  through  the  long 
silent  passages,  to  the  cold,  dark,  deserted 
room — my  heart  beating  with  excitement, 
my  foolish  head  dizzy  with  hope  and  faith. 
The  church-clock  chimed  a  quarter  past 
twelve  as  I  opened  the  door. 

It  was  an  awful  night.  The  windows 
shook,  as  if  every  instant  they  would  burst 
in  with  some  strong  man's  hand  on  the  bars, 
and  his  shoulder  against  the  frames  ;  and 
the  trees  howled  and  shrieked,  as  if  each 
branch  were  sentient  and  in  pain.  The  ivy 
beat  against  the  window,  sometimes  with 
fury,  and  sometimes  with  the  leaves  slowly 
scraping  against  the  glass,  and  drawing  out 
long  shrill  sounds,  like  spirits  crying  to  each 
other.  In  the  room  itself  it  was  worse. 
Rats  had  made  it  their  refuge  for  many 
years,  and  they  rushed  behind  the  wainscot 
and  down  inside  the  walls,  bringing  with 
them  showers  of  lime  and  dust,  which  rattled 
like  chains,  or  sounded  like  men's  feet  hur- 
rying to  and  fro  ;  and  every  now  and  then,  a 
cry  broke  through  the  room,  one  could  not 
tell  from  where  or  from  what,  but  a  cry,  dis- 
tinct and  human ;  heavy  blows  seemed  to  be 
struck  on  the  floor,  which  cracked  like  part- 
ing ice  beneath  my  feet,  and  loud  knockings 
shook  the  walls.  Yet  in  this  tumult,  I  was 
not  afraid.  I  reasoned  on  each  new  sound 
very  calmly — and  said,  "  Those  are  rats,"  or 
"  those  are  leaves,"  and  "  birds  in  the  chim- 
ney," or  "  owls  in  the  ivy,"  as  each  new 
howl  or  scream  struck  my  ear.  And  I  was 
not  in  the  least  frightened  or  disturbed  ;  it 
all  seemed  natural  and  familiar.  I  placed 
the  candle  on  a  table  in  the  midst  of  the 
room,  where  an  old  broken  mirror  stood  ; 
and,  looking  steadily  into  the  glass  (having 
first  wiped  off  the  dust),  I  began  to  eat  Eve's 


forbidden  fruit,  wishing  intently,  as  I  had 
been  bidden,  for  the  apparition  of  my  future 
husband. 

In  about  ten  minutes  I  heard  a  dull,  vague, 
unearthly  sound  ;  felt,  not  heard.  It  was  a,8 
if  countless  wings  rushed  by,  and  email  low 
voices  whispering  too  ;  as  if  a  crowd,  a  mut 
titude  of  life  was  about  me ;  as  if  shadowy 
faces  crushed  up  against  me,  and  eyes  and 
hands,  and  sneering  lips,  all  mocked  me.  I 
was  suffocated.  The  air  was  so  heavy,  so 
filled  with  life,  that  I  could  not  breathe.  I 
was  pressed  on  from  all  sides,  and  could  not 
turn  nor  move  without  parting  thickening 
vapors.  I  heard  my  own  name,  I  can  swear 
to  that  to-day  !  I  heard  it  repeated  through 
the  room  ;  and  then  bursts  of  laughter  fol- 
lowed, and  the  wings  rustled  and  fluttered, 
and  the  whispering  voices  mocked  and  chat- 
tered, and  the  heavy  air,  so  filled  with  life, 
hung  heavier  and  thicker,  and  the  Things 
pressed  up  to  me  closer,  and  checked  the 
breath  on  my  lips  with  the  clammy  breath 
from  theirs. 

I  was  not  alarmed.  I  was  not  excited ; 
but  I  was  fascinated  and  spell-bound  ;  yet 
with  every  sense  seeming  to  possess  ten  times 
its  natural  power.  I  still  went  on  looking  in 
the  glass,  still  earnestly  desiring  an  appari- 
tion, when  suddenly  I  saw  a  man's  face 
peering  over  my  shoulder  in  the  glass.  Giris, 
I  could  draw  that  ftice  to  this  hour !  The 
low  forehead,  with  the  short  curling  hair, 
black  as  jet,  growing  down  in  a  sharp  point ; 
the  dark  eyes,  beneath  thick  eye-brows, 
burning  with  a  peculiar  light ;  the  nose  and 
the  dilating  nostrils  ;  the  thin  lips,  curling 
into  a  smile,  I  see  them  all  plainly  before 
me  now.  And — 0,  the  smile  that  it  was ! — 
the  mockery  and  sneer,  the  derision,  the 
sarcasm,  the  contempt,  the  victory  that  were 
in  it !  even  then  it  struck  into  me  a  sense  of 
submission.  The  eyes  looked  full  into  mine  ; 
those  eyes  and  mine  fastened  on  each  other  ; 
and,  as  I  ended  my  task,  the  church  clock 
chimed  the  half  hour ;  and,  suddenly  re- 
leased, as  if  from  a  spell,  I  turned  round, 
expecting  to  see  a  living  man  standing  be- 
side me.  But  I  met  only  the  chill  air  coming 
in  from  the  loose  window,  and  the  solitude 
of  the  dark  night.  The  Life  had  gone  :  the 
wings  had  rushed  away  ;  the  voices  had  dieu 
out,  and  I  was  alone  ;  with  the  rats  behind 
the  wainscot,  the  owls  hooting  in  the  ivy, 
and  the  wind  howling  through  the  trees. 

Convinced  that  either  some  trick  had  been 
played  me,  or  that  some  one  was  concealed 
in  the  room,  I  searched  every  corner  of  it. 
I  lifted  lids  of  boxes  filled  with  the  dust  of 
ages  and  with  rotting  paper  lying  like 
bleaching  skin.  I  took  down  the  chimney- 
board,  and  soot  and  ashes  flew  up  in  clouds. 
1  opened  dim  old  closets,  where  all  manner 
of  foul  insects  had  made  their  homes,  and 
where  daylight  had  not  entered  for  genera- 
tions ;  but  1  found  nothing.     Satisfied  that 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BY   THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


49 


nothing  human  was  in  the  room,  and  that 
no  one  could  have  been  there  to-night,  nor 
for  many  months,  if  not  years,  and  still 
nerved  to  a  state  of  desperato  courage,  I 
went  back  to  the  drawing-room.  But,  as  I 
left  that  room  I  felt  that  something  flowed 
out  with  me  ;  and,  all  through  the  long  pas- 
sages, I  retained  the  sensation  that  this 
something  was  behind  me.  My  steps  were 
heavy,  the  consciousness  of  pursuit  having 
paralysed  not  quickened  me ;  for  I  knew 
that  when  I  left  that  haunted  room  I  had  not 
left  it  alone.  As  I  opened  the  drawing-room 
door,  the  tihizing  fire  and  the  strong  lamp- 
light burstinu;  out  upon  me  with  a  peculiar 
expression  of  cheerfulness  and  welcome,  I 
heard  a  laugh  close  at  my  elbow,  and  felt  a 
hot  blast  across  my  neck.  I  started  back, 
but  the  laugh  died  away,  and  all  I  saw  were 
two  points  of  light,  fiery  and  flaming,  that 
somehow  fashioned  themselves  into  eyes  be- 
neath their  heavy  brows,  and  looked  at  me 
meaningly  through  the  darkness. 

They  all  wanted  to  know  what  I  had  seen  ; 
but  I  refused  to  say  a  word ;  not  liking  to 
tell  a  falsehood  then,  and  not  liking  to  ex- 
pose myself  to  ridicule.  For  I  felt  that  what 
I  had  seen  was  true,  and  that  no  sophistry 
and  DO  argument,  no  reasoning  and  no  ridi- 
cule, could  skake  my  belief  in  it.  My  sweet 
Lucy  came  up  to  me,  seeing  me  look  so  pale 
and  wild,  threw  her  arms  around  my  neck, 
and  leaned  forward  to  kiss  me.  As  she  bent 
her  head,  I  felt  the  same  warm  blast  rush 
over  my  lips,  and  my  sister,  cried,  "  Why, 
Lizzie,  your  lips  burn  like  fire  !" 

And  so  they  did,  and  for  long  after.  The 
Presence  was  with  me  still,  never  leaving 
me  day  nor  night :  by  my  pillow,  its  whisper- 
ing voice  often  waking  me  from  wild  dreams ; 
by  my  side  in  the  broad  sunlight ;  by  my 
side  in  the  still  moonlight :  never  absent, 
busy  at  my  brain,  busy  at  my  heart — a  form 
ever  banded  to  me.  It  flitted  like  a  cold 
cloud  between  my  sweet  sister's  eyes  and 
mine,  and  dimmed  them  so  that  I  could 
scarcely  see  their  beauty.  It  drowned  my 
father's  voice,  and  his  words  fell  confused 
and  indistinct. 

Not  long  after,  a  stranger  came  into  our 
neighborhood.  He  bought  Green  Howe,  a 
deserted  old  property  by  the  river  side, 
where  no  one  had  lived  for  many,  many 
years ;  not  since  the  young  bride,  Mrs. 
Braithwaite,  had  been  found  in  the  river 
one  morning,  entangled  among  the  dank 
weeds  and  dripping  alders,  strangled  and 
drowned,  and  her  husband  dead — none  knew 
how — lying  by  the  chapel  door.  The  place 
had  had  a  bad  name  ever  since,  and  no  one 
would  live  there.  However,  it  was  said  tliat 
a  stranger,  who  had  been  long  in  the  East, 
a  Mr.  Felix,  had  now  bought  it,  and  that  he 
was  coming  to  reside  there.  And,  true 
enough,  one  day  the  whole  of  our  little  town 
of  Thornhill  was  in  a  state  of  excitement; 
4 


for  a  traveling  carriage  and  four,  followed 
by  another  full  of  servants — Hindoos,  or 
Lascars,  or  Negroes;  dark-colored,  strange- 
looking  people — passed  through,  and  Mr. 
Felix  took  possession  of  Green  Howe. 

My  father  called  on  him  after  a  time  ;  and 
I,  as  the  mistress  of  the  house,  went  with 
him.  Green  Howe  had  been  changed,  as  if 
by  magic,  and  we  both  said  so  together,  as 
we  entered  the  iron  gates  that  led  up  the 
broad  walk.  The  ruined  garden  was  one 
mass  of  plants,  fresh  and  green,  many  of 
them  quite  new  to  me  ;  and  the  shrubbery, 
which  had  been  a  wilderness,  was  restored 
to  order.  The  house  looked  larger  than  be- 
fore, now  that  it  was  so  beautifully  deco- 
llated ;  and  the  broken  trellis-work,  which 
used  to  hang  dangling  among  the  ivy,  was 
matted  with  creeping  roses,  and  jasmine, 
which  left  on  me  the  impression  of  having 
been  in  flower,  which  was  impossiljle.  It 
was  a  fairy  palace ;  and  we  could  scarcely 
believe  that  this  was  the  deserted,  ill-omened 
Green  Ilowe.  The  foreio;n  servants,  too,  in 
Eastern  dresses,  covered  with  rings,  and 
necklaces,  and  ear  rings,  the  foreign  smells 
of  sandal-wood,  and  camphor,  and  musk  ;  tho 
curtains  that  hung  everywhere  in  place  of 
doors,  some  of  velvet,  and  some  of  cloth  of 
gold  ;  the  air  of  luxury,  such  as  I,  a  simple 
country  girl,  had  never  seen  before,  made 
such  a  powerful  impression  on  me  that  I  felt 
as  if  carried  away  to  some  unknown  region. 
As  we  entered,  Mr.  Felix  came  to  meet  us  ; 
and,  drawing  aside  a  heavy  curtain  rliat 
seemed  all  of  g(jld  and  fire — for  the  flame- 
colored  flowers  danced  and  quivered  on  the 
gold — he  led  us  into  an  inner  room,  where 
the  darkened  light,  the  atmosphere  heavy 
with  perfumes,  the  statues,  the  birds  like 
living  jewels,  the  magnificence  of  stufl's,  and 
the  luxuriousness  of  arrangement  overpow- 
ered me.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  sunk  into  a 
lethargy  in  which  I  heard  imly  the  rich 
voice,  and  saw  only  the  form  of  our  stranger 
host. 

He  was  certainly  very  handsome ;  tall, 
dark,  yet  pale  as  marble :  his  very  lips  were 
pale  ;  with  eyes  that  were  extremely  bright, 
but  which  had  an  expression  behind  them 
that  subdued  me.  His  manners  were  grace- 
ful. He  was  very  cordial  to  us,  and  made 
us  stay  a  long  time,  taking  us  through  his 
grounds  to  see  his  improvements,  and  ]ioint- 
ing  out  here  and  there  further  alterations  to 
be  made,  all  with  such  a  disregard  for  local 
difficulties,  and  for  cost,  that,  had  he  been 
one  of  the  princes  of  the  genii  he  could  not 
have  talked  more  royally.  He  was  more 
than  merely  attentive  to  me  ;  speaking  to  me 
often  and  in  a  lower  voice,  bending  down 
near  to  me,  and  looking  at  me  with  eyes  that 
thrilled  through  every  nerve  and  fibre.  I 
saw  that  my  father  was  uneas}-  ;  and  when 
we  left,  I  asked  him  how  he  liked  our  new 
neighbor.     He    said,    "  Not  much,  Lizzie,'- 


50 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES. 


with  a  ^rave  and  almost  disploased  look,  as 
if  hi!  liad  probed  tho  weakness  I  was  scarcoly 
conscious  of  myself.  I  thougiit  at  the  time 
that  he  was  harsh. 

However,  as  there  was  nothinoj  positively 
to  object  to  in  Mr.  Felix,  my  father's  impulse 
of  distrust  could  not  well  be  indulged  witii- 
out  rudeness  ;  and  my  dear  father  was  too 
thorougiilya  gentleman  ever  to  be  rude  even 
to  his  enemy.  We  therefore  saw  a  great 
deal  of  tho  stranger,  who  established  himself 
in  our  house  on  the  most  familiar  footing, 
and  forced  on  my  father  and  Lucy  an  inti- 
macy they  both  disliked  but  could  not  avoid. 
For  it  was  forced  with  such  consummate  skill 
and  tact,  that  there  was  nothing  which  the 
most  rigid  could  object  to. 

I  gradually  became  an  altered  being  under 
his  influence.  In  one  thing  only  a  happier 
— in  the  loss  of  the  voice  and  the  form  which 
had  haunted  me.  Since  I  had  known  Felix 
this  terror  had  gone.  The  reality  had  ab- 
sorbed the  shadow.  But  in  nothing  else 
was  this  strange  man's  influence  over  me 
beneficial.  I  remember  that  I  used  to  hate 
myself  for  my  excessive  irritability  of  tem- 
per when  I  was  away  from  him.  Everything 
at  home  displeased  me.  Everything  seemed 
60  small  and  mean,  and  old  and  poor  after 
the  lordly  glory  of  that  house  ;  and  the  very 
caresses  of  my  family  and  the  olden  school- 
day  friends  were  irksome  and  hateful  to  me. 
All  except  my  Lucy  lost  its  charm  ;  and  to 
her  I  was  faithful  as  ever ;  to  her  I  never 
changed.  But  her  influence  seemed  to  war 
with  his  wonderfully.  When  with  him  I 
felt  borne  away  in  a  torrent.  His  words  fell 
upon  me  mysterious  and  thrilling,  and  he 
gave  me  fleeting  glimpses  into  worlds  which 
had  never  opened  themselves  to  me  before  ; 
glimpses  seen  and  gone  like  the  Arabian 
gardens. 

When  I  came  back  to  my  sweet  sister,  her 
pure  eyes  and  the  holy  light  that  lay  in 
them,  her  gentle  voice  speaking  of  the  sacred 
things  of  heaven  and  the  earnest  things  of 
life,  seemed  to  me  like  a  former  existence  : 
a  state  I  had  lived  in  years  ago.  But  this 
divided  influence  nearly  killed  me;  it  seemed 
to  part  my  very  soul  and  wrench  my  being 
in  twain  ;  and  this  more  than  all  the  rest, 
made  me  sad  beyond  anything  people  be- 
lieved possible  in  one  so  gay  and  reckless  as 
I  had  been. 

My  father's  dislike  to  Felix  increased 
daily  ;  and  Lucy,  who  had  never  been  known 
to  use  a  harsh  word  in  her  life,  from  the 
first  refused  to  believe  a  thought  of  good  in 
him,  or  to  allow  him  one  single  claim  to 
praise.  She  used  to  cling  to  me  in  a  wild, 
beseeching  way,  and  entreat  me  with  pray- 
ers, such  as  a  mother  might  have  poured  out 
before  an  erring  child,  to  stop  in  time,  and 
to  return  to  those  who  loved  me.  "  For 
your  soul  is  lost  from  among  us,  Lizzie," 
she  used  to  say  ;  "  and  nothing  but  a  frame 


remains  of  the  full  life  of  love  you  once 
gave  us!"  But  one  word,  one  look,  from 
Felix  was  enough  to  make  me  forget  every 
tear  and  every  prayer  of  her  who,  until  now, 
had  been  my  idol  and  my  law. 

At  last  my  dear  father  commanded  me 
not  to  see  Felix  again.  I  felt  as  if  I  should 
have  died.  In  vain  I  wept  and  prayed.  In 
vain  I  gave  full  license  to  my  thoughts,  and 
suffered  words  to  pour  from  my  lips  which 
ought  never  to  have  crept  into  my  heart.  In 
vain  ;  my  father  was  inexorable. 

I  was  in  the  drawing-room.  Suddenly, 
noiselessly,  Felix  was  beside  me.  He  had 
not  entered  by  the  door  which  was  dirertly 
in  front  of  me  ;  and  the  window  was  closed. 
I  never  could  understand  this  sudden  ap- 
pearance ;  for  I  am  cert«un  that  he  had  not 
been  concealed. 

"  Your  f\ither  has  spoken  of  me,  Lizzie?" 
he  said,  with  a  singular  smile.     I  was  silent. 
"  And    has    forbidden    you    to   see    me 
again?"  he  continued. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  impelled  to  speak  by 
something  stronger  than  my  will. 
"  And  you  intend  to  obey  him  ?" 
"  No,"  I  said  again,  in  the  same  manner, 
as  if  I  had  been  talking  in  a  dream. 

He  smiled  again.  Who  was  he  so  like  when 
he  smiled?  I  could  not  remember,  and  yet" 
I  knew  that  he  was  like  some  one  I  had  seea 
— a  face  that  hovered  outside  my  memory, 
on  the  horizon,  and  never  floated  near 
enough  to  be  distinctly  realized. 

"  You  are  right,  Lizzie,"  he  then  said  ; 
"  there  are  ties  which  are  stronger  than 
a  father's  commands;  ties  which  no  man 
has  the  right,  and  no  man  has  the  power  io 
break.  Meet  me  to-morrow  at  noon  in  tho 
Low  Lane  ;  we  will  speak  further." 

He  did  not  say  this  in  any  supplicating, 
nor  in  any  loving  manner  ;  it  was  simply  a 
command,  unaccompanied  by  one  tender 
word  or  look.  He  had  never  said  he  loved 
me — never  ;  it  seemed  to  be  too  well  under- 
stood between  us  to  need  assurances. 

I  answered,  "yes,  "burying  my  face  in 
my  hands,  in  shame  at  this  my  first  act  of 
disobedience  to  my  father ;  and  when  I 
raised  my  head,  he  was  gone.  Gone  as  he 
had  entered,  without  a  footfall  sounding 
ever  so  lightly. 

I  met  him  the  next  day,  and  it  was  not  the 
only  time  that  I  did  so.  Day  after  day 
I  stole  at  his  command  from  the  house, 
to  walk  with  him  in  the  Low  Lane — :t{ie 
lane  which  the  country  people  said,  was 
haunted,  and  which  was  consequently  al- 
ways deserted.  And  there  we  used  to  walk 
or  sit  under  the  blighted  elm  tree  for  hours  ; 
he  talking,  but  I  not  understanding  all  he 
said  :  for  there  was  a  tone  of  grandeur  and 
of  mystery  in  his  words,  that  overpowered 
without  enlightening  me,  and  that  left  my 
spirit  dazzled  rather  than  convinced.  I 
had   to   give  reas  ns  at  home  fur  my  long 


NINE  NEW   STORIES  BY   THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


51 


absences,  and  he  bade  me  say  that  I  had 
been  with  old  Dame  Todd,  the  blind  widow 
of  Thornhill  Rise,  and  that  I  had  been 
readino;  the  Bible  to  her.  And  I  obeyed, 
although,  while  I  said  it,  I  felt  Lucy's  eyes 
fixed  plaintively  on  mine,  and  heard  her 
murmur  a  prayer  that  I  might  be  forgiven. 

Lucy  grew  ill.  As  the  flowers  and  the 
summer  sun  came  on,  her  spirit  faded  more 
rapidly  away.  I  have  known  since,  that  it 
was  grief  more  than  malady  which  was  killing 
her.  The  look  of  nameless  suffering  which 
used  to  be  in  her  f\ice,  has  haunted  me 
through  life  with  undying  sorrow.  It  was 
suffering  that  I,  who  ought  to  have  rather  died 
for  her,  had  caused.  But  not  even  her  illness 
stayed  me.  In  the  intervals,  I  nursed  her 
tenderly  and  lovingly  as  before ;  but  for 
hours  and  hours  I  left  her — all  through  the 
long  days  of  summer — to  walk  in  the  Low 
Lane,  and  to  sit  in  my  world  of  poetry  and 
fire.  When  I  came  back  my  sister  was 
often  weeping,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  for  me 
— I,  who  once  would  have  given  my  life  to 
save  her  from  one  hour  of  sorrow.  Then  I 
would  fling  myself  on  my  knees  beside  her. 
•in  an  agony  of  shame  and  repentance,  and 
promise  better  things  of  the  morrow,  and 
vow  strong  efforts  against  the  power  and 
the  spell  that  were  on  me.  But  the  morrow 
subjected  me  to  the  same  unhallowed  fasci- 
nation, the  same  faithlessness. 

At  last  Felix  told  me  that  I  must  come 
with  him  ;  that  I  must  leave  my  home,  and 
take  part  in  his  life  ;  that  I  belonged  to  him 
and  to  him  only,  and  that  I  could  not  break 
the  tablet  of  a  fate  ordained:  that  I  was  his 
destiny,  and  he  mine,  and  that  I  must  fulfil 
the  law  which  the  stars  had  written  in  the 
sky.  I  fought  against  this.  I  spoke  of  my 
father's  anger,  and  of  my  sister's  illness.  I 
prayed  to  him  for  pity,  not  to  force  this  on 
nie.  and  knelt  in  the  shadows  of  the  autumn 
sunset  to  ask  from  him  forbearance. 

I  (lid  not  yield  this  day.  nor  the  next,  nor 
for  many  days;.  At  last  he  conquered. 
When  I  said  "  Yes,"  he  kissed  the  scarf  I 
wore  round  my  neck.  Until  then  he  had 
never  touched  even  my  hand  with  his  lips. 
I  consented  to  leave  my  sister,  who  I  well 
knew  was  dying:  I  consented  to  leave  my 
father,  whose  whole  life  had  been  one  act  of 
love  and  care  for  his  children  ;  and  to  bring 
a  stain  on  our  name,  unstained  until  then. 
I  consented  to  leave  those  who  loved  me,  all 
I  loved,  for  a  stranger. 

All  was  prepared;  the  harrying  clouds. 
lead  colored,  and  the  howling  wind,  the  fit 
companions  in  nature  with  the  evil  and  the 
despair  of  my  soul.  Lucy  was  worse  to-day  ; 
but  though  I  felt  going  to  my  death  in  leav- 
ing her,  I  could  not  resist.  Had  hia  voice 
called  me  to  the  scaffold,  I  must  have  gone. 
It  was  the  last  day  of  October,  and  at  mid- 
night when  I  was  to  leave  the  house.  I  had 
kissed  my  sleeping  sister,  who  was  dreaming 


in  her  sleep  and  cried,  and  grasped  my 
hand,  called  aloud,  "  Lizzie,  Lizzie  I  Come 
back  I"  But  the  spell  was  on  me,  and  I  left 
her  ;  and  still  her  dreaming  voice  called  out, 
ckoking  with  sobs,  "  Xot  there  1  not  there, 
Lizzie  I     Come  back  t(    me  !" 

I  was  to  leave  the  he  use  by  the  large,  old, 
haunted  room  that  I  hstve  spoken  of  before  ; 
Felix  waiting  for  me  outside.  And,  a  little 
after  twelve  o'clock,  I  opened  the  door  to 
pass  through.  This  time  the  chill,  and  the 
damp,  and  the  darkness  unnerved  me.  The 
broken  mirror  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  as  before,  and,  in  passing  it,  I  me- 
chanically raised  my  eyes.  Then  I  remem- 
bered that  it  was  Allhallow's  eve,  the 
anniversary  of  the  apparition  of  last  year. 
As  I  looked,  the  room,  which  had  been  so 
deadly  still,  became  filled  with  the  sound  I 
had  heard  before.  The  rushing  of  large 
wings,  and  the  crowd  of  whispering  voices 
flowed  like  a  river  round  me  ;  and  again, 
glaring  into  my  eyes,  was  the  same  face  in 
the  glass  that  I  had  seen  before,  the  sneering 
smile,  even  more  triumphant,  the  blighting 
stare  of  the  fiery  eyes,  the  low  brow  and  the 
coal-black  hair,  and  the  look  of  mockery. 
All  were  there ;  and  all  I  had  seen  before 
and  since  ;  for  it  was  Felix  who  was  gazing 
at  me  from  the  glass.  When  I  turned  to 
speak  to  him,  the  room  was  empty.  Not  a 
living  creature  was  there  ;  only  a  low  laugh, 
and  the  far-ofl"  voices  whispering,  and  the 
wings.  And  then  a  hand  tapped  on  the 
window,  and  the  voice  of  Felix  cried  from 
outside,  "  Come  Lizzie,  come  !" 

I  staggered,  rather  than  walked,  to  the 
window  ;  and,  as  I  was  close  to  it — my  hand 
raised  to  open  it — there  stood  between  me 
and  it  a  pale  figure  clothed  in  white;  her 
face  more  pale  than  the  linen  round  it. 
Her  hair  hung  down  on  her  breast,  and  her 
blue  eyes  looked  earnestly  and  mournfully 
inio  mine.  She  was  silent,  and  yet  it  seertied 
as  if  a  volume  of  love  and  of  entreaty  flowed 
from  her  lips;  as  if  I  heard  words  of  death- 
less afl'ection.  It  was  Lucy  ;  standing  there 
in  this  bitter  midnight  cold — giving  her  life 
to  save  me,  Felix  called  to  me  again,  im- 
patiently ;  and  as  he  called,  the  figure 
turned,  and  beckoned  me ;  beckoning  me 
gently,  lovingly,  beseechingly ;  and  then 
slowly  faded  away.  The  chime  of  the  half- 
hour  sounded  ;  and,  I  fled  from  the  room  to 
my  sister.  I  found  her  lying  dead  on  the 
floor  ;  her  hair  hanging  over  her  breast,  and 
one  hand  stretched  out  as  if  in  supplication. 

The  next  day  Felix  disappeared;  he  and 
his  whole  retinue  ;  and  Green  Howe  fell  into 
ruins  again.  No  one  knew  where  he  went, 
as  no  one  knew  from  whence  he  came. 
And  to  this  day  I  sometimes  doubt  whether 
or  not  he  was  a  clever  adventurer,  who  had 
heard  of  my  father's  wealth  ;  and  who,  see- 
ing my  weak  and  imaginative  character, 
had  acted  on  it  for  his  own  purposes.     All 


52 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


that  I  do  know  is  that  my  sister's  spirit 
saved  me  from  ruin ;  and  that  she  died  to 
save  me.  She  had  seen  and  known  all,  and 
gave  herself  for  my  salvation  down  to  the 
last  and  supreme  effort  she  made  to  rescue 
me.  She  died  at  that  hour  of  half-past 
twelve  ;  and  at  half-past  twelve,  as  I  live 
before  you  all,  she  appeared  to  me  and  re- 
called me. 

And  this  is  the  reason  why  I  never  mar- 


ried, and  why  I  pass  Allhallow's  eve  in 
prayer  by  my  sister's  grave.  I  have  told 
you  to-night  this  story  of  mine,  because  I 
feel  that  I  shall  not  live  over  another  last 
night  of  October,  but  before  the  next  white 
Christmas  roses  come  out  like  winter  stars 
on  the  earth,  I  shall  be  at  peace  in  the  grave. 
Not  in  the  grave  ;  let  me  rather  hope  with 
my  blessed  sister  in  Heaven  1 


WV\/^^'<^1< 


OVER    THE    WAY'S    STORY. 


Once  upon  a  time,  before  I  retired  from 
mercantile  pursuits  and  came  to  live  over 
the  way,  I  lived,  for  many  years,  in  Ursine 
Lane. 

Ursine  Lane  is  a  very  rich,  narrow,  dark, 
dirty,  straggling  lane  in  the  great  city  of 
London  (said  by  some  to  be  itself  as  rich,  as 
dark,  and  as  dirty.)  Ursine  Lane  leads 
from  Cheapside  into  Thames  Street,  facing 
Sir  John  Pigg's  wharf;  but  whether  Ursine 
Lane  be  above  or  below  Bow  Church,  I  shall 
not  tell  you.  Neither,  whether  its  name  be 
derived  from  a  bear-garden,  (which  was  in 
great  vogue  in  its  environs  in  Queen  Bess's 
time,)  or  from  an  Ursuline  Nunnery  which 
flourished  in  its  vicinity,  before  big,  bad 
King  Harry  sent  nuns  to  spin,  or  to  do 
anything  else  they  could.  Ursine  Lane  it 
was  before  the  great  fire  of  London,  and 
Ursine  Lane  it  is  now. 

The  houses  in  Ursine  Lane  are  very  old, 
very  inconvenient,  and  very  dilapidated ; 
and  I  don't  think  another  great  fire  (all  the 
houses  being  well  insured,  depend  upon  it) 
would  do  the  neighborhood  any  harm,  in 
clearing  the  rubbishing  old  lane  away.  Num- 
ber four  tumbled  in,  and  across  the  road  on 
to  number  sixteen,  a  few  years  ago  ;  and 
since  then  Ursine  Lane  has  been  provided 
with  a  species  of  roofing  in  the  shape  of 
great  wooden  beams  to  shore  up  its  opposite 
sides.  The  district  surveyor  shakes  his  head 
very  much  at  Ursine  Lane,  and  resides  as 
far  from  it  as  he  can.  The  cats  of  the 
neighborhood  find  great  delectation  in  the 
shoring  beams,  using  them,  in  the  night 
season,  as  rialtos  and  bridges,  not  of  sighs, 
but  of  miauws  ;  but  foot  passengers  look 
wistfully  and  somewhat  fearfully  upwards 
at  the  wooden  defences.  Yet  Ursine  Lane 
remains.  To  be  sure,  if  you  were  to  pull  it 
down,  you  would  have  to  remove  the  old 
church  of  St.  Nicholas  Bearcroft,  where  the 
bells  ring  every  Friday  night,  in  conformity 
with  a  bequest  of  Master  Miniver  Squirrel!, 
furrier,  obiit  sixteen  hundred  and   eighty- 


four,  piously  to  commemorate  his  escape 
from  the  paws  of  a  grizzly  bear  while  travel- 
ling in  the  wilds  of  Muscovy.  You  would 
have  to  demolish  the  brave  gilt  lion  and  the 
brave  gilt  unicorn  at  the  extremity  of  the 
churchwarden's  pew,  who  (saving  their 
gender)  with  the  clerk,  the  sexton,  and  two 
or  three  deaf  old  shopkeepers  and  their 
wives,  are  pretty  nearly  all  the  dearly  be- 
loved brethren  whom  the  Reverend  Tremaine 
Popples,  M.  A.,  can  gather  together  as  a 
congregation.  Worse  than  all,  if  Ursine 
Lane  were  to  come  down — the  pump  must 
come  down,  the  old  established,  constitu- 
tional, vested,  endowed  pump ;  built,  so 
tradition  runs,  over  a  fountain  blessed  by 
the  great  St.  Ursula  herself.  So  Ursine  Lane 
remains. 

At  a  certain  period  of  the  world's  history, 
it  may  have  been  yesterday,  it  may  have 
been  yesterday  twenty  years,  there  dwelt  in 
this  dismal  avenue,  a  Beast.  Everybody 
called  him  a  Beast.  He  was  a  Manchester 
warehouseman.  Now  it  is  not  at  all  neces- 
sary for  a  Manchester  warehouseman — or, 
indeed,  for  any  warehouseman — to  be  a  beast 
or  a  brute,  or  anything  disagreeable.  Quite 
the  contrary.  For  instance,  next  door  to 
the  Beast's  were  the  counting-houses  and 
warerooms  of  Tapperly  and  Grigg,  also 
Manchester  warehousemen,  as  merry,  light- 
hearted,  good-humored  young  fellows  as  you 
would  wish  to  see.  Tapperly  was  somewhat 
of  a  sporting  character,  rode  away  every 
afternoon  on  a  high-stepping  brown  mare, 
and  lounged  regularly  about  the  entrance  to 
"  Tats"  whether  he  booked  any  bets  or  not. 
As  for  Grigg,  he  was  the  Coryphaeus  of  all 
the  middle  class  soirees,  dancing  academies 
and  subscription  balls  in  London,  and  it 
was  a  moving  sight  to  see  him  in  his  famous 
Crusader  costume  at  a  Drury  Lane  Bal- 
Masque.  Nor  was  old  Sir  William  Watch 
(of  the  firm  of  Watch,  Watch  and  Rover, 
Manchester  warehousemen)  at  the  corner, 
who  was  fined  so  many  thousand  pounds  for 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BY   THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


emuggling  once  upon  a  time,  at  all  beastlike 
or  brutish.  He  was  a  white-headed,  charita- 
ble jolly  old  gentleman,  fond  of  old  port  and 
old  songs  and  old  clerks  and  porters,  and  his 
Cheque-book  was  as  open  as  his  heart. 
Lacteal,  Flewitt,  and  Company,  again,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Beast's  domicile,  the 
great  dealers  in  gauzes  and  ribbons,  were 
mild,  placable,  pious  men,  the  beloved  of 
Clapham.  But  the  Beast  was  a  Beast  and 
no  mistake.  Everybody  said  he  was  ;  and 
what  everybody  says,  must  be  true.  His 
name  was  Braddleseroggs. 

Barnard  Braddleseroggs.  He  was  the 
head,  the  trunk  and  the  tail  of  the  firm. 
N'o  Co.,  no  son,  no  nephew,  no  brothers  : 
B.  Braddlescroggs  glared  at  you  from  either 
door-jamb.  His  warerooms  were  extensive, 
gloomy,  dark,  and  crowded.  So  were  his 
counting-houses,  which  were  mostly  under- 
ground and  candle-lit.  He  loved  to  keep  his 
sut)ordinates  in  these  dark  dens,  where  he 
could  rush  in  upon  them  suddenly,  and 
growl  at  them.  You  came  wandering  through 
these  subterraneans  upon  wan  men,  pent  up 
among  parasols  and  cartons  of  gay  ribbons  ; 
upon  pale  lads  in  spectacles  registering  silks 
and  merinos  by  the  light  of  flickering,  strong 
smelling  tallow  candles  in  rusty  sconces. 
There  was  no  counting-house  community  ; 
no  desk-fellowship  :  the  clerks  were  isolated 
— dammed  up  in  steep  little  pulpits,  rele- 
gated behind  walls  of  cotton  goods,  consign- 
(?d  to  the  inpace  of  bales  of  tarlatan  and 
barege.  The  Beast  was  everywhere.  He 
prowled  about  continually.  He  lurked  in 
holes  and  corners.  He  reprimanded  clerks 
on  staircases,  and  discharged  porters  in  dark 
entries.  His  deep,  harsh,  grating  voice 
could  ever  be  heard  growling  during  the 
hours  of  business,  somewhere,  like  a  sullen 
earthquake.  His  stern  Wellington  boots 
continually  creaked.  His  numerous  keys 
rattled  gaoler-fashion.  His  very  watch, 
when  wound  up,  made  a  savage  gnashing 
noise,  as  though  the  works  were  in  torment. 
He  was  a  Beast. 

Tall,  square,  sinewy,  and  muscular  in 
person  ;  large  and  angular  in  features  ;  with 
a  puissant,  rebellious  head  of  gray  hair  that 
would  have  defied  all  the  brushing,  comb- 
ing, and  greasing  of  the  Burlington  Arcade  ; 
with  black  bushy  eyebrows  nearly  meeting 
on  his  forehead  ;  with  a  horseshoe  frown  be- 
tween his  eyes  ;  with  stubbly  whiskers,  like 
horse-hair  spikes,  rather  indented  in  his 
cheekbones  than  growing  on  his  cheeks ; 
with  a  large,  stiff  shirt  collar  and  frill  de- 
fending his  face  like  chevatix-de-frise ;  with 
large,  coarse,  bony  hands  plunged  in  his 
trousers  pockets  ;  with  a  great  seal  and  rib- 
bons and  the  savage  ticking  watch  I  have 
mentioned, — such  was  Barnard  Braddle- 
..uroggs.  From  the  ears  and  nostrils  of  such 
men  you  see  small  hairs  growing,  indomita- 
ble by  tweezers ;   signs    of  inflexibility  of 


53 


purpose,  and  stern  virility.  Their  joints 
crack  as  they  walk.     His  did. 

Very  rich,  as  his  father,  old  Simon  Brad- 
dleseroggs, had  been  before  him,  B.  Brad- 
dlescroggs was  not  an  avaricious  man.  He 
had  never  been  known  to  lend  or  advance  a 
penny  to  the  necessitous ;  but  he  paid  his 
clerks  and  servants  liberal  salaries.  This 
was  a  little  unaccountable  in  the  Boast,  but 
it  was  said  they  did  not  hate  him  the  less. 
He  gave  largely  to  stern  charities,  such  as 
dragged  sinners  to  repentance,  or  adminis- 
tered eleemosynarv  food,  education  and 
blows  (in  a  progressively  liberal  proportion) 
to  orphan  children.  He  was  a  visiting  jus- 
tice to  strict  gaols,  and  was  supposed  not  to 
have  quite  made  up  his  mind  as  to  what 
system  of  prison  discipline  was  the  best,  un- 
remitting corporal  punishment,  or  continu- 
ous solitary  confinement.  He  apprenticed 
boys  to  hard  trades,  or  assisted  them  to 
emigrate  to  inclement  climates.  He  was  a 
member  of  a  rigid  persuasion,  and  one  in 
high  authority,  and  had  half  built  a  chapel 
at  his  own  expense ;  but  everybody  said 
that  few  people  thanked  him,  or  were  grate- 
ful to  him  for  his  generosity.  He  was  such 
a  Beast.  He  bit  the  orphan's  nose  oif,  and 
bullied  the  widow.  He  gave  alms  as  one 
who  pelts  a  dog  with  marrow-bones,  hurting 
him  while  he  feeds  him.  Those  in  his  em- 
ployment who  embezzled  or  robbed  him, 
were  it  of  but  a  penny  piece,  he  mercilessly 
prosecuted  to  conviction.  Everybody  had 
observed  it.  He  sued  all  debtors,  opposed 
all  insolvents,  and  strove  to  bring  all  bank- 
rupts within  the  meaning  of  the  penal 
clauses.  Everybody  knew  it.  The  mer- 
chants and  brokers,  his  compeers,  fell  away 
from  him  on  'Change;  his  correspondents 
opened  his  hard,  fierce  letters  with  palpita- 
ting hearts  ;  his  clerks  cowered  before  him  ; 
his  maid  servants  passed  him  (when  they 
had  courage  to  pass  him  at  all)  with  fear 
and  trembling.  The  waiters  at  the  "  Cock" 
in  Threadneedle  Street,  where  he  took  a 
fiery  bowl  of  Mulligatawney  soup  for  lunch, 
daily,  didn't  like  him.  At  his  club  at  the 
West  End  he  had  a  bow-window  and  a 
pile  of  newspapers  all  to  himself,  dined  by 
himself,  drank  by  himself,  growled  to  him- 
self. 

There  had  been  a  Mrs.  Braddleseroggs  ; 
a  delicate,  blue-eyed  little  woman  out  of 
Devonshire,  who  had  been  Beauty  to  the 
Beast.  She  died  early.  Her  husband  was 
not  reported  to  have  beaten  her,  or  starved 
her,  or  verbally  ill-treated  her,  but  simply 
to  have  frightened  her  to  death.  Everybody 
said  so.  She  could  never  take  those  mild 
blue  eyes  of  hers  off  her  terrible  husband, 
and  died,  looking  at  him  timorously.  One 
son  had  been  born  to  B.  B.  at  her  demise. 
He  grew  up  a  pale,  fair-haired,  frightened 
lad,  with  his  mother's  eyes.  The  Beast 
had  treated  him  (everybody  was  indignant 


54 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


at  it)  from  his  earliest  years  with  unvarying 
and  consistent  severity  ;  and  at  fourteen  he 
was  removed  from  the  school  of  the  rigid 
persuasion,  where  he  had  received  his 
drei\ry  commercial  education,  to  his  father's 
rigider,  drearier  establishment  in  Ursine 
Lane.  lie  had  a  department  to  himself 
there,  and  a  tallow  candle  to  himself. 

The  clerks,  some  twelve  in  number,  all 
dined  and  slept  in  the  house.  They  had  a 
dismal  dormitory  over  some  stables  in  Griz- 
zly Bnildin^^s,  at  the  back  of  Ursine  Lane  ; 
and  dined  in  a  dingy,  uncarpeted  room  at 
the  top  of  the  building — on  one  unvarying 
bill  of  fare  of  beef,  mutton,  and  potatoes — 
plenty  of  it,  though,  for  the  Beast  never 
stinted  them  ;  which  was  remarkable  in  such 
a  Beast.  The  domestic  arrangements  were 
superintended  by  a  housekeeper — a  tall, 
melancholy,  middle-aged  lady,  supposed  to 
hiive  been  once  in  affluent  circumstances. 
She  had  been  very  good-looking,  too,  once, 
but  had  something  the  matter  with  her  spine, 
and  not  unfrequently  fell  down  stairs,  or 
up  stairs,  in  fits  of  syncope.  When  the  Beast 
had  no  one  else  to  abuse  and  maltreat,  he 
would  go  up  stairs  and  abuse  Mrs.  Plim- 
niets,  and  threaten  her  with  dismissal  and 
inevitable  starvation.  Business  hours  con- 
cluded at  eight  nightly,  and  from  that  hour 
to  ten  p.  M.,  the  clerks  were  permitted  to 
walk  where  they  listed — but  exclusion  and 
expulsion  were  the  never  failing  result  of  a 
moment's  unpunctuality  in  returning  home. 
The  porters  slept  out  of  the  house,  and  the 
clerks  looked  at  them  almost  as  superior 
beings,  as  men  of  strange  experiences  and 
knowledge  of  life — men  who  had  been  pre- 
sent at  orgies  prolonged  beyond  midnight, 
men  who  had  remained  in  the  galleries 
of  theatres  till  the  performances  were  con- 
cluded. 

Of  the  dozen  clerks  who  kept  the  books  of 
Barnard  Braddlescroggs  (save  that  grim  au- 
riferous banker's  pass-book  of  his)  and  regis- 
tered his  wares,  I  have  to  deal  with  but  two. 
My  business  lies  only  with  blue-eyed,  pale- 
faced  William  Braddlescroggs,  and  with 
John  Simcox  the  corresponding  clerk. 

Simcox  among  his  fellow  clerks,  Mr.  Sim- 
cox among  the  porters.  Jack  Simcox  among 
bis  intimates  at  the  "  Admiral  Benbow" 
near  Camberwell  Gate,  "  you  Simcox,"  with 
his  growling  chief.  A  gray-haired,  smiling, 
red-faced  simpleton  was  Simcox ;  kind  of 
heart,  simple  of  mind,  affectionate  of  dispo- 
sition, confiding  of  nature,  infirm  of  purpose, 
convivial  of  habits.  lie  was  fifty  years  in 
age,  and  fifteen  in  wisdom.  He  had  been  at 
the  top  of  the  ladder  once — a  rich  man  at 
least  by  paternal  inheritance,  with  a  car- 
riage and  horses  and  lands ;  but  when  he 
tumbled  (which  he  did  at  five-and-twenty, 
very  quickly  and  right  to  the  bottom),  he 
never  managed  to  rise  again.  The  dupe  of 
every  shallow  knave ;   the  victim  in  every 


egregious  scheme  ;  an  excellent  arithmeti- 
cian, yet  quite  unable  to  put  two  and  two 
together  in  a  business  sense  ;  he  had  never  J 
even  had  strength  of  character  to  be  his  own  I 
enemy ;  he  had  always  found  such  a  multi- 
plicity of  friends  ready  to  do  the  inimical 
for  him.  If  you  let  him  alone  he  would  do 
well  enough.  He  would  not  lose  his  money 
till  you  cheated  him  out  of  it ;  he  would  not 
get  drunk  himself,  but  would  allow  you  to 
make  him  so,  with  the  most  charming  wil- 
lingness and  equanimity.  There  are  many 
Simcoxes  in  the  world,  and  more  rogues 
always  ready  to  prey  upon  them :  yet  though 
I[should  like  to  hang  the  rogues,  I  should  not 
like  to  see  the  breed  of  Simcox  quite  extinct. 

John  Simcox  had  a  salary  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  a  year.  If  I  were  writing 
fiction  instead  of  sober  (though  veiled)  truth, 
I  should  picture  him  to  you  as  a  victim  with 
some  two  score  of  sovereigns  per  annum. 
No  ;  he  had  a  hundred  and  tv,'enty  of  those 
yellow  tokens  annually,  for  the  Beast  never 
stinted  in  this  respect  either,  which  was 
again  remarkable  in  such  a  Beast.  One 
hundred  and  twenty  golden  sovereigns  an- 
nually, had  John  Simcox  ;  and  they  were 
of  about  as  much  use  to  him  as  one  hundred 
and  twenty  penny  pieces.  When  a  man  has 
a  quarter's  salary  amounting  to  twent}-- 
seven  pounds,  receivable  next  Thursday, 
and  out  of  that  has  a  score  of  three  pounds 
due  at  the  "  Admiral  Benbow,"  and  has 
promised  to  (and  will)  lend  ten  pounds  to  a 
friend,  and  has  borrowed  five  more  of  an- 
other friend  himself,  which  he  means  to 
pay  ;  and  has  besides  his  little  rent  to  meet, 
and  his  little  butcher  and  his  little  grocer 
and  his  little  tailor,  it  is  not  very  difiicult  to 
imagine  how  the  man  may  be  considerably 
embarrassed  in  satisfying  all  these  demands 
out  of  the  capital.  But,  when  the  adminis- 
trator of  the  capital  happens  to  be  (as  Sim- 
cox was)  a  man  without  the  slightest  com- 
mand of  himself  or  his  money,  you  will  have 
no  difiiculty  in  forming  a  conviction  that  the 
end  of  Simcox's  quarter-days  were  worse 
than  their  commencement. 

Nor  will  you  be  surprised  that  "  execu- 
tions" in  Simcox's  little  house  in  Carolina- 
terrace,  Albany-road,  Camberwell,  were  of 
frequent  occurrence  ;  that  writs  against  him 
were  always  "out,"  .and  the  brokers  always 
"in."  That  he  was  as  well  known  in  tiie 
county  court  as  the  judge.  That  orders  for 
payment  were  always  coming  due  and  never 
being  paid.  His  creditors  never  arrested 
him,  however.  If  they  did  so,  they  knew  he 
would  lose  his  situation  ;  so  the  poor  man 
went  on  from  week  to  week,  and  from  month 
to  month,  borrowing  here  and  borrowing 
there,  obtaining  small  advances  from  loan 
societies  held  at  public-houses,  robbing 
Peter  to  pay  Paul — always  in  a  muddle,  in 
short ;  but  still  smoking  his  nightly  pipes, 
and  drinking  his  nightly  glasses,  and  sing- 


NINE  NEW   STORIES  BY  THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


55 


ing  his  nightly  songs ;  the  latter  with  im- 
mense applause  at  the  "  Admiral  Benbow." 

I  don't  think  Sinicox's  worldly  position 
was  at  all  improved  by  his  having  married 
(in  very  early  life,  and  direct  from  the  finish- 
ing establishment  of  the  Misses  Gimp,  at 
Hammersmith)  a  young  lady  highly  accom- 
plished in  the  useful  and  productive  arts  of 
tambourwork  and  Poonah  painting  ;  but  of 
all  domestic  or  household  duties  consider- 
ably more  ignorant  than  a  Zooloo  Kaffir. 
"When  Simcox  had  run  through  his  money, 
an  operation  he  performed  with  astonishing 
celerity,  Mrs.  Simcox,  finding  herself  with 
three  daughters  of  tender  age  and  a  ruined 
husband,  took  refuge  in  a  flood  of  tears  ; 
subsequently  met  the  crisis  of  misfortune 
with  a  nervous  fever ;  and  ultimately  sub- 
Bided  into  permanent  ill, health,  curl  papers, 
and  shoes  down  at  heel. 

When  the  events  took  place  herein  narra- 
ted, the  three  daughters  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Simcox  were  all  grown  up.  Madeline,  aged 
twenty-two,  was  a  young  lady  of  surprising 
altitude,  with  shoulders  of  great  breadth  and 
sharpness  of  outline,  with  very  large  black 
eyes  and  very  large  black  ringlets,  attributes 
of  which  she  was  consciously  proud,  but 
with  a  nose  approaching  to — what  shall  I 
say? — the  snub.  Chemists'  assistants  had 
addressed  acrostics  to  her;  and  the  young 
man  at  the  circulating  library  was  supposed 
to  be  madly  in  love  with  her.  Helena, 
daughter  number  two,  aged  twenty,  was 
also  tall,  had  also  black  eyes,  black  ringlets, 
white  resplendent  shoulders,  was  the  be- 
loved of  apothecaries,  and  the  Laura  of 
Petrarehs  in  the  linen  drapery-lino.  These 
young  ladies  were  both  acknowledged,  re- 
cognized, established  as  beauties  in  the 
Camberwellian  district.  They  dressed,  some- 
bow,  in  the  brightest  and  most  variegated 
colors  ;  they  had,  somehow,  the  prettiest  of 
bonnets,  the  tightest  of  gloves,  the  neatest 
of  kid  boots.  Their  sabbatical  entrance  to 
the  parish  church  always  created  a  sensa- 
tion. The  chemist's  assistant  kissed  his 
hand  as  they  passed  ;  the  young  man  at  the 
circulating  library  laid  down  his  book  and 
sighed  ;  passing  young  ladies  envied  and 
disparaged  ;  passing  young  gentlemen  ad- 
mired and  aspired  ;  yet,  some  how,  Miss 
Madeline  would  be  twenty-three  next  birth- 
day, and  Miss  Helena  twenty-one,  and  no 
swain  had  yet  declared  himself  in  explicit 
terms  ;  no  one  had  said,  "  I  have  a  hundred 
a  year  with  a  prospect  of  an  advance :  take 
it,  my  heart,  and  hand."  Old  Muggers, 
indeed,  the  tailor  of  Acacia  Cottages,  the 
friend,  creditor,  and  boon  companion  of  Sim- 
cox, had  intimated,  in  his  cups,  at  the 
"  Admiral  Benbow,"  his  willingness  to  mar- 
ry either  of  the  young  ladies  ;  but  his  ma^ 
trimonial  proposals  generally  vanished  with 
his  inebriety  ;  and  he  was  besides  known  to 
be  a  dreadfully  wicked  old  man,  addicted  to 


drinking,  smoking,  and  snuff-taking.  As  a 
climax  of  villany,  he  was  supposed  to  have 
two  wives  already,  alive  and  resident  in 
different  parts  of  the  provinces. 

And  daughter  number  three — have  I  for- 
gotten her  ?  Not  by  any  means.  Was  she 
a  beauty  ?  No.  In  the  opinion  of  her  sis- 
ters, Camberwell,  and  of  the  chemist's  as- 
sistant, she  was  not  a  beauty.  She  had 
dark  eyes  ;  but  they  were  neither  brilliant 
nor  piercing.  She  had  dark  hair  ;  but  wore 
it  in  no  long  or  resplendent  ringlets.  She 
was  an  ordinary  girl  "  a  plain  little  thing" 
(according  to  the  Camberwell  opinion)  ; 
there  was  "  nothing  about  her"  in  the  eyes 
of  the  chemist's  assistant. 

This  young  person  (Bessy  byname),  from 
the  earliest  periods  of  authentic  record  to 
the  mature  age  of  sixteen,  had  occupied,  in 
.the  Simcox  household,  an  analogous  position 
to  that  of  the  celebrated  Cinderella.  She 
did  not  exactly  sit  in  the  chimney  corner 
among  the  ashes  ;  but  she  lighted  the  tire, 
waited  upon,  dressed,  and  was  otherwise  the 
humble  and  willing  drudge  of  her  accom- 
plished relatives.  She  diil  not  exactly  dress 
in  rags  ;  but  she  trotted  about  the  house  and 
neighborhood  in  a  shabliy  brown  merino 
frock,  which  she  had  wniuUy  outgrown,  a 
lamentable  old  beaver  bonnet,  and  a  faded 
Paisley  shawl  which  held  a  sort  of  middle 
rank  in  appearance,  between  a  duster  and  a 
pocket-handkerchief  well  to  do  in  the  world. 
As  a  child,  she  was  punished  for  the  things 
she  did  not  do,  and  doubly  punished  for 
those  she  did  do.  As  a  girl,  she  ran  of  er- 
rands, fetched  the  beer,  lighted  the  fire  (as  I 
have  said),  read  the  sentimental  novels  to 
mamma  as  she  lay  upon  the  sofa,  and  ac- 
companied her  sisters  on  the  pianoforte 
when  they  rehearsed  those  famous  songs 
and  duets 'with  which  they  did  terrific  exe- 
cution in  the  Camberwell  circles. 

Honest  Simcox,  like  a  stupid,  undiscern- 
ing,  shiftless  man  as  he  was,  did  not  enter- 
tain the  domestic  or  Camberwell  opinion 
concerning  Bessy.  He  maintained  that  siie 
had  more  sense  in  her  little  finger  than  her 
sisters  put  together  (with  his  wife  into  the 
bargain,  the  honest  fellow  thought,  I  dare 
swear,  though  he  did  not  dare  to  say  so). 
He  called  her  his  little  darling,  his  little 
Mentor,  his  willing,  patient  Betsy-petsy, 
with  other  foolish  and  weak-minded  ex- 
pressions of  endearment.  What  else  could 
you  expect  of  a  red-nosed  warehouseman's 
clerk  who  fuddled  himself  nightly  at  the 
"Admiral  Benbow!"  Profoundly  submis- 
sive to  his  wife  in  most  instances,  he  had 
frequently  presumed,  during  Bessy's  nonage, 
to  differ  from  Mrs.  Simcox  as  to  the  amount 
of  whipping  meted  out  to  his  youngest 
daughter  for  childish  delinquencies,  and 
had  once  even  dared  to  interfere  when  his 
lady  undertook  to  inflict  that  punishment 
for'a  fault  the  child  had  never  committed, 


56 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


and  to  "  stay  justice  in  its  mid  career." 
So  in  process  of  time  the  alliance  between 
the  snubbed,  neglected  little  girl  and  her 
father  became  of  so  close  a  nature  as  to  be 
almost  recognised  and  permitted  by  the 
rest  of  the  family.  Bessy  was  reckoned 
among  the  rest  of  the  low  company  with 
whom  the  degraded  Simcox  chose  to  asso- 
ciate. She  was  allowed  to  pull  off  his 
muddy  boots,  to  prepare  his  dinner,  to  fill 
his  pipe  and  mix  his  grog  when  he  muddled 
himself  at  home  ;  and  to  lead  him  home, 
shambling,  from  the  "  Admiral  Benbow," 
when  he  performed  that  operation  abroad. 
Notably  of  late  times  she  had  been  commis- 
sioned to  fetch  her  papa  home  from  Ursine 
Lane  on  the  eventful  quarter-day  ;  and  the 
meek,  guiding-help  of  Bessy  had  often 
saved  that  infirm  old  fellow  from  many 
a  dark  and  dangerous  pitfall.  The  child 
would  wait  patiently  outside  the  doors  of 
public-houses  wliile  her  father  boozed  with- 
in ;  she  would  lead  him  away  gently  but 
firmly  from  his  riotous  companions,  or, 
meeting  them  and  taking  them  aside,  would 
plead  passionately,  tearfully,  that  they 
would  not  make  papa  tipsy  to-night.  Simie 
of  the  disreputable  personages  with  whom 
she  was  brought  into  such  strange  contact 
were  quite  subdued  and  abashed  by  her 
earnest,  artless  luuks  and  speech.  Jack 
Fliiuks  himself,  formerly  of  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, now  principally  of  the  bar  of  the 
"  Bag  o'Nails,"  the  very  worst,  most  dissi- 
pated and  most  reckless  of  Simcox's  asso- 
ciates, forebore  drinking  with  Bessy's  fa- 
ther for  one  whole  week,  and  actually  re- 
turned, in  a  private  and  mysterious  manner, 
to  Bessy,  two  half-crowns  he  had  borrowed 
of  him  !  So  useful  was  this  filial  surveil- 
lance found  to  be  by  the  other  branches  of 
his  family  that  the  quarter-day  functions 
of  our  plain  little  Bessy  were  gradually 
extended,  and  became  next  of  weekly  and 
afterwards  of  diurnal  occurrence.  It  was 
good  to  see  this  girl  arrayed  in  the  forlorn 
beaver  bonnet  and  the  faded  Paisley  shawl, 
with  her  mild,  beaming,  ordinary,  little 
countenance,  arrive  at  about  a  quarter  to 
eight,  at  the  Thames  Street  corner  of  Ursine 
Lane,  and  there  wait  patiently  until  her 
father's  ofiicial  duties  were  over.  She  be- 
came almost  as  well  known  in  the  neighbor- 
hood as  St.  Nicholas  Bearward,  or  as  the 
famous  sanctified  pump  itself.  The  fellow- 
ship porters  from  Sir  John  Pigg's  wharf 
touched  their  caps  to  her;  the  majestic 
beadle  of  St.  Nicholas  (a  cunning  man, 
omnipotent  over  the  fire  escape,  king  of  the 
keys  of  the  engine-house,  and  supposed  to 
know  where  the  fire-plug  was,  much  better 
than  the  turncock)  spoke  her  kindly ;  all 
the  clerks  in  Braddlescrogg's  house  knew 
her,  nodded  to  her,  smiled  at  her,  and  pri- 
vately expressed  their  mutual  opinions  as 
to  what  a  beast  Braddlescroggs  was,  not  to 


ask  that  dear  little  girl  in,  and  let  her  rest 
herself,  or  sit  by  the  fire  in  winter.  The 
pot-boy  of  the  "  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff,"  in 
his  evening  excursions  with  the  supper 
beer,  grew  quite  enamored  (in  his  silent, 
sheepish  fashion)  of  this  affectionate  daugh- 
ter, and  would,  I  dare  say,  had  he  dared, 
have  offered  her  refreshment  from  his  beer- 
can  ;  nay,  even  the  majestic  wealthy  Mr. 
Drum,  the  wholesale  grocer  and  provision 
merchant,  who  stood  all  day  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  under  his  own  gibbet-like 
crane,  a  very  Jack  Ketch  of  West  India 
produce,  had  addressed  cheering  and  be- 
nevolent words  to  her  from  the  depths  of 
his  double  chin  ;  had  conferred  figs  upoQ 
her ;  had  pressed  her  to  enter  his  saccha- 
rine smelling  warehouse,  and  rest  herself 
upon  a  barrel  of  prime  navy  mess  beef. 

When  the  Beast  of  Ursine  Lane  met  Bessy 
Simcox,  he  either  scowled  at  her,  or  made 
her  sarcastic  bows,  and  asked  her  at  what 
pot-house  her  father  was  about  to  get  drunk 
that  night,  and  whether  he  had  taught  Iter  to 
drink  gin,  too  ?  Sometimes  he  growled  forth 
his  determination  to  have  no  "  bits  of  girls" 
hanging  about  his  "  place  :"  sometimes  he 
told  her  she  would  not  have  to  come  many 
times  more,  for  that  he  was  determined  on 
discharging  that  "  drunken  old  dog,"  her 
papa.  In  the  majority  of  instances,  how- 
ever, he  passed  her  without  any  other  notice 
than  a  scowl,  and  a  savage  rattle  of  the 
keys  and  silver  in  his  pockets.  The  little 
maiden  trembled  fearfully  when  she  saw 
him,  and  had  quiet  fits  of  weeping  (in 
which  a  corner  of  the  Paisley  shawl  was 
brought  into  frequent  requisition)  over 
against  the  pump,  when  he  had  spoken  to 
her.  There  was  a  lad  called  William  Brad- 
dlescroggs, with  blue  eyes  and  fxir  hair,  who 
blushed  very  violently  whenever  he  saw 
Bessy,  and  had  once  been  bold  enough  to 
tell  her  that  it  was  a  fine  evening.  In  this 
flagrant  crime  he  was  then  and  there  detected 
by  his  father,  who  drove  him  back  into  the 
warehouse. 

"  As  this  is  quarter-day,  my  Bessy,"  was 
the  remark  of  John  Simcox  to  his  daughter, 
one  twenty-eighth  of  March,  "  as  this  is 
quarter-day,  I  think,  my  child,  that  I  will 
take  one  glass  of  ale." 

It  was  about  half-past  eight,  I  think,  and 
Bessy  and  her  papa  were  traversing  the 
large  thoroughfare  known  as  the  New  Kent 
Road.  There  is  in  that  vicinity,  as  you  are 
aware,  that  stunning  Champagne  Ale  House, 
known  as  the  "  Leather  Bottle."  Into  that 
stunning  ale  house  did  John  Simcox  enter, 
leaving  his  little  Bessy  outside,  with  fifteen 
pounds,  the  balance  of  what  he  had  already 
expended  of  his  quarter's  salary.  The  night 
was  very  lowering,  and  rain  appeared  to  be 
imminent.  It  came  down,  presently,  in  big, 
pattering  drops,  but  John  had  promised  not 
to  be  long.  ■ 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BY   THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


57 


"Why  should  I  tell,  in  extenso,  the  humilia- 
ting tale  of  how  John  Simcox  got  tipsy  that 
night  ?  How  he  forced  all  the  money,  pound 
by  pound,  from  his  little  daughter?  How, 
when  after  immense  labor  and  trouble,  he 
had  at  last  been  brought  to  his  own  street 
duor,  he  suddenly  started  off  at  an  unknown 
tangent  (running  hard  and  straight)  and 
disappeared.  How  his  daughter  wandered 
about,  weeping,  in  the  pouring  rain,  seeking 
him  ;  how,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a 
doleful  party  arrived  at  a  little  house  in 
Camberwell — a  very  moist  policeman,  a 
weeping,  shivering,  drenched  little  girl  over 
whom  tlie  municipal  had  in  pity  thrown  his 
oilskin  cape,  and  a  penniless,  hatless,  drunk- 
en man,  all  covered  with  mud,  utterly  sod- 
den, wretched,  and  degraded.  Drop  the 
curtain,  for  pity's  sake. 

The  first  impulse  of  Mrs.  Simcox,  after 
duly  loading  her  besotted  husband  with  re- 
proaches, was  to  beat  Bessy.  The  anger  of 
this  matron,  generally  so  gently  languid, 
was  something  fearful  to  view.  An  enraged 
sheep  is  frantic.  She  was  frustrated,  how- 
ever, in  her  benevolent  intention,  first  by 
the  policeman,  afterwards  by  Bessy  herself, 
who,  wet,  fatigued,  and  miserable  (but  in 
an  artful  and  designing  manner,  no  doubt), 
first  contrived  to  faint  away,  and  next  day 
chose  to  fall  into  a  high  fever. 

In  this  fever — in  the  access  thereof — she 
lay  three  long  weeks.  In  a  lamentable  state 
of  languor  she  lay  many  long  weeks  more. 
The  brokers  were  in  again.  The  parlor 
carpet  was  taken  up  and  sent  to  the  pawn- 
broker's. There  were  no  invalid  comforts  in 
the  house  ;  no  broth,  nor  chicken  to  make 
it,  no  arrowroot,  no  sago,  no  port  wine, 
no  anything  to  speak  of,  that  was  really 
wanted. 

Stay,  I  am  wrong.  There  were  plenty  of 
doctors  ;  there  was  plenty  of  doctor's  stuff. 
The  chemists,  apothecaries,  and  medical 
practitioners  of  the  neighborhood,  treated 
the  Simcox  family,  and  the  little  sick  daugh- 
ter, in  particular,  in  a  liberal  and  considerate 
manner.  Not  one  charged  a  penny,  and  all 
were  unremitting  in  attention.  Kind-hearted 
Mr.  Sphoon,  of  Walworth,  sent  in — so  to 
Bpeak — a  hamper  of  quinine.  Young  Tuck- 
ett,  close  by,  who  had  just  passed  the  Hall 
and  College,  and  opened  his  shop,  offered  to 
do  anything  for  Bessy.  He  would  have 
dissected  her,  even,  I  am  sure.  Great  Doc- 
tor Bibby  came  from  Camberwell  Grove,  in 
his  own  carriage,  with  his  own  footman  with 
the  black  worsted  tags  on  his  shoulder,  and 
majestically  ordered  change  of  air,  and  red 
Port  wine  for  Bessy  Simcox.  A  majestic 
man  was  Dr.  Bibby,  and  a  portly,  and  a 
deep-voiced  and  a  rich.  His  boots  creaked, 
and  his  carriage-springs  oscillated  ;  but  he 
left  a  sovereign  on  the  Simcox  mantlepiece, 
for  all  that. 

So  there  was  something  of   those  things 


needful  in  the  little  house  at  Camberwell. 
There  was,  besides,  a  certain  nurse,  active, 
devoted,  patient,  soothing,  and  gentle.  Not 
Mrs.  Simcox,  who  still  lay  on  the  sofa,  now 
reading  the  sentimental  novels,  now  moan- 
ing over  the  family  difficulties.  Not  the 
Misses  Simcox,  who,  though  they  did  tend 
their  sister,  did  it  very  fretfully  and  cross- 
grainedly,  and  unanimously  declared  that 
the  child  made  herself  out  to  be  a  great  deal 
worse  than  she  really  was.  This  nurse  had 
rather  a  red  nose,  and  a  tremulous  hand. 
He  came  home  earlier  from  the  City  now  ; 
but  he  never  stopped  at  the  stunning  Cham- 
pagne Ale  House.  He  had  not  been  to  the 
"  Admiral  Benbow"  for  seven  weeks.  He 
sat  by  his  daughter's  pillow  ;  he  read  to  her  ; 
he  carried  her  in  his  arms  like  a  child  as  she 
was  ;  he  wept  over  the  injury  he  had  done 
her ;  he  promised,  and  meant,  and  prayed 
for,  amendment. 

But  what  were  the  attentions  of  the  doc- 
tors, the  hamper  of  quinine,  the  sovereign 
on  the  mantlepiece,  even,  after  all  ?  They 
were  but  drops  in  the  great  muddled  ocean 
of  the  Simcox  embarrassments.  A  sove- 
reign would  not  take  Bessy  to  Malvern  or 
Ventnor  ;  the  quinine  would  not  give  her 
red  Port  wine  and  change  of  air.  The  nurse 
grew  desperate.  There  was  no  money  to  be 
borrowed,  none  to  be  obtained  from  the 
pawnbroker,  none  to  be  received  until  next 
quarter-day — before  which,  another  month 
must  elapse.  Should  he  attempt  to  obtain  a 
small  advance  of  money  from  the  Beast  him- 
self— the  terrible  Braddlescroggs?  Should 
he  offer  him  two  hundred  per  cent,  interest; 
should  he  fall  down  on  his  knees  before  him  ; 
should  he  write  him  a  supplicatory  letter ; 
should  he  ? 

One  evening,  Simcox  came  home  from  the 
ofBce,  with  many  smiles  upon  his  face.  He 
had  borrowed  the  money  after  many  diffi- 
culties, from  the  chief  clerk.  Ten  pounds. 
He  would  have  to  pay  very  heavy  interest 
for  it,  but  never  mind.  Mrs.  Simcox  should 
take  Bessy  to  Ventnor  for  a  fortnight  or 
three  weeks.  Quarter  day  would  soon  come 
round.  Soon  come  round.  Now  and  then 
his  family  remarked,  that  the  many  smiles 
dropped  from  their  papa's  countenance  like 
a  mask,  and  that,  underneath  he  wore  a  look 
rather  haggard,  rather  weary,  rather  terri- 
ble ;  but  then,  you  see,  he  would  have  to  pay 
such  a  heavy  interest  for  the  ten  pound*. 
Mrs.  Simcox  was  delighted  at  the  prospect 
of  her  country  trip  ;  poor  Bessy  smiled  and 
thanked  her  papa ;  and  the  two  Miss  Sim- 
coxes,  who  had  their  own  private  conviction 
that  an  excursion  to  the  sea-side  was  the 
very  thing  for  them  ;  to  air  their  beauty  as 
it  were,  and  not  for  that  designing  bit  of  a 
thing,  Bessy,  with  her  pale  face,  the  two 
Miss  Simcoxes,  I  say,  went  to  bed  in  a  huff. 

To  the  pleasant  Island  of  Wight  in  the 
British  Channel,  and  the  county  of  Hamp- 


58 


DICKENS'   NEW    STORIES. 


shire,  did  the  little  convalescent  from  Cam- 
berwell  and  her  parent  proceed.  Bessy 
gathered  shells  and  sea  weed,  and  bouji;lit 
sand  pictures  on  cardboard  by  the  Under- 
cliff,  and  sand  in  bottles,  and  saw  the  don- 
key at  Carisl)roke  Castle,  and  wondered  at 
Little  St.  liawroncc  Church,  and  the  maf^ni- 
ficent  3'achtini!;  dandies  at  Cowes  and  Hyde, 
until  her  pale  face  grew  quite  rosy,  and  her 
dark  eyes  had  something  of  a  sparkle  in 
them.  Iler  mamma  lay  on  the  sofa  as 
usual,  exhausted  the  stock  of  sentimental 
novels  in  the  Ventnor  circulating  library, 
var^'ing  these  home  occupations  occasionally 
by  taking  exercise  in  a  wheel-chair,  and 
*'  nagging"  at  Bessy.  The  pair  came  back 
to  London  together,  and  were  at  the  little 
mansion  at  Caniberwell  about  a  week  before 
quarter-da3^  The  peccant  Simcox  had  been 
exemplarily  abstemious  during  their  ab- 
sence; but  his  daughters  had  not  been  able 
to  avoid  remarking  that  he  was  silent,  re- 
served, and  anxious  looking.  You  see  he 
had  to  pay  such  heavy  interest  for  the  ten 
pounds  he  had  borrowed  of  the  chief  clerk. 

Three  days  before  quarter-day,  it  was  ten 
minutes  to  eight  p.  m.,  and  Bessy  Simcox 
was  waiting  for  her  father.  She  was  confi- 
dent, hopeful,  cheerful  now;  she  thanked 
God  for  her  illness  and  the  change  it  had 
•wrought  in  her  dear  papa.  Ten  minutes  to 
eight,  and  a  hot  summer's  evening.  She 
was  watching  the  lamp-lighter  going  round 
■with  his  ladder  and  his  little  glimmering 
lantern,  when  she  was  accosted  by  one  of 
Mr.  Braddlescrogg's  porters.  He  was  an 
ugly,  forbidding  man,  with  a  vicious-looking 
fur  cap  (such  as  porters  of  workhouses  and 
wicked  skippers  of  colliers  wear),  and  had 
never  before  saluted  or  spoken  to  her.  She 
began  to  tremble  violently  when  John  Ma- 
lingerer (a  special  favorite  of  the  Beast's,  if 
he  could  have  favored  any  one,  and  sup- 
posed to  be  a  porter  after  his  own  heart), 
addressed  her. 

"  Hi !"  said  the  porter,  "  you're  wanted," 

"  Me— wanted?"  Where?  By  whom?" 
stammered  Bessy. 

"  Counting  house — Governor — Bisness," 
replied  John  Malingerer,  in  short  growling 
periods. 

Bessy  followed  him,  still  trembling.  The 
porter  walked  before  her,  looming  like  the 
genius  of  Misfortune.  He  led  her  through 
dingy  wareroom  after  wareroom,  counting 
house  after  counting  house,  where  the  clerks 
all  were  silent  and  subdued.  He  led  her  at 
last  into  a  dingy  sanctum,  dimly  lighted  by 
one  shaded  lamp.  In  this  safe  there  were 
piles  of  dingy  papers  and  more  dingy  led- 
gers ;  with  great  piles  of  accounts  on  hooks 
in  the  wail,  with  their  long  iron  necks  and 
■white  bodies,  like  ghosts  of  dead  bills  -who 
had  hanged  themselves  ;  a  huge  iron  safe 
throwing  hideous  shadows  against  the  wall, 
and  three  silent  men. 


That  is  to  say  : 

John  Simcox,  white,  trembling  and  with 
wild  eyes. 

The  Beast,  neither  more  nor  less  a  Beast 
than  he  usually  was. 

A  tall  man  with  a  very  sharp  shirt  collar, 
great  coat,  a  black  stock ;  very  thin  iron 
gray  hair  ;  a  face  which  looked  as  if  it  had 
once  been  full  of  wrinkles  and  furrows  which 
had  been  half  ironed  out;  very  peculiar  and 
very  heavy  boots,  brown  Berlin  gloves,  and 
a  demeanor  which  confirmed  you  immedi- 
ately in  a  conviction  that  were  you  to  strike 
at  him  violently  with  a  sledge  hammer,  his 
frame  would  give  forth  in  response  no  fleshy 
"  thud,"  but  a  hard  metallic  ring. 

The  Beast  was  standing  up :  his  back 
against  a  tall  desk  on  spectral  legs,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets.  So  also,  standing,  in 
a  corner,  was  Simcox.  So  also,  not  exactly 
anywhere  but  somewhere,  somehow,  and 
about  Simcox,  and  about  Bessy,  and  par- 
ticularly about  the  door,  and  the  iron  safe, 
in  which  he  seemed  to  take  absorbing  in- 
terest, was  the  tall  man  in  the  peculia. 
boots. 

"  Come  here,  my  girl,"  said  the  grating 
voice  of  Barnard  Braddlescroggs  the  Beasi 

My  girl  came  there,  to  the  foot  of  a  table, 
as  she  was  desired.  She  heard  the  grating 
voice  ;  she  heard,  much  louder,  the  beating 
of  her  own  heart ;  she  heard,  loudest  of  all, 
a  dreadful  voice  crying  within  her,  crying 
over  and  over  again  that  papa  had  borrowed 
ten  pounds,  and  that  he  would  have  to  pay 
very  heavy  interest  for  it,  and  that  quarter 
day  would  soon  come  round,  soon  come 
round. 

"  This  person's  name  is  Lurcher,"  pur- 
sued the  Beast. 

The  person  coughed.  The  cough  struck 
on  the  girl's  heart  like  a  knell.     One. 

"  He  is  an  oflicer." 

An  oflicer  of  what?  Of  the  Household 
Brigade;  of  the  yeomanry  cavalry  ;  of  the 
Sherifl"  of  Middlesex's  battalion,  a  custom 
house  officer,  a  naval  oflicer,  a  relieving 
officer?  But  Bessy  knew  in  a  moment.  Slie 
might  have  known  it  at  first  from  the  pecu- 
liar boots  the  officer  wore — boots  sueh  as  no 
other  officer,  or  man,  or  woman  can  wear. 
But  her  own  heart  told  her.  It  said  [ilainly  : 
"  This  is  a  police  officer,  and  he  has  come  to 
take  your  father  into  custody." 

It  was  all  told  directly.  Oh  Bessy,  Bessy  ! 
The  ten  pounds  borrowed  from  the  chief 
clerk,  for  which  he  would  have  to  pay  such 
heavy  interest.  The  ten  pounds  were  bor- 
rowed from  the  Petty  Cash.  The  miserable 
Simcox's  account  was  fifteen  pounds  defi- 
cient ;  he  had  promised  to  refund  the  money 
on  quarter  day  ;  he  had  begged  and  prayed 
for  time ;  the  Beast  was  inexorable,  and 
Lurcher,  the  officer,  was  there  to  take  him 
to  prison  for  emljezzlement. 

"  You  daughter  of  this  man,"   said   the 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BY  THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


50 


Beast,  "  you  must  go  home  without  him. 
You  tell  his  -wife  and  the  rest  of  his  people, 
that  I  have  locked  him  up,  and  that  I'll 
transport  him,  for  robbery." 

"  Robbery,  no,  sir,"  cried  poor  Simcox 
from  the  corner.  "  Before  God,  no  !  It  was 
only  for " 

"  Silence  1"  said  the  Beast.  "  I'll  prose- 
cute you,  I'll  transport  you,  I'll  hang  you. 
By  G — ,  I'll  reform  you,  sumehow."  *'  Girl," 
he  continued,  turning  to  Bessy.  "  Go  home. 
Stop  1  I'll  send  a  clerk  with  you  to  see  if 
there  are  any  of  my  g^ods  at  home.  I  dare 
Bay  there  are,  and  you'll  move  'em  to-night. 
You  wont  though.  I'll  have  a  search  war- 
rant. I'll  put  you  all  in  gaol.  I'll  trans- 
port you  all.  Come  here,  one  of  you  fellows 
in  the  office"  (this  with  a  roar)  "and  go 
■with  this  girl  to  Camberwell.  Lurcher,  take 
the  rascal  away." 

What  was  poor  Bessy  to  do  ?  What  could 
she  do  but  fall  down  on  her  knees,  clasping 
those  stern  knees  before  her?  What  could 
she  do,  but  amid  sobs  and  broken  articula- 
tion say  that  it  was  all  her  fault  ?  That  it 
was  for  her,  her  dear  papa  had  taken  the 
money.  That  for  her  use  it  had  been  spent. 
What  could  she  do  but  implore  the  Beast, 
for  the  love  of  heaven,  for  the  love  of  his 
own  son,  fur  the  love  of  his  dead  father  and 
mother,  to  spare  the  object  of  his  wrath,  to 
send  her  to  prison,  to  take  all  they  had,  to 
show  them  mercy,  as  he  hoped  mercy  to  be 
shown  tu  him  hereafter. 

She  did  all  this  and  more.  It  was  good, 
though  pitiful,  to  see  the  child  on  her  knees 
in  her  mean  dress,  with  her  streaming  eyes, 
and  her  poor  hair  all  hanging  about  her 
eyes,  and  to  hear  her  artless,  yet  passionate 
supplications.  The  Beast  moved  nor  muscle 
nor  face  ;  but  it  is  upon  record  that  Mr. 
Lurcher,  after  creaking  about  on  the  pecu- 
liar boots  for  some  seconds,  turned  aside  in- 
to the  shadow  of  the  iron  safe,  and  blew  his 
uose. 

"  Lurcher,"  observed  the  Beast,  "  wait  a 
moment  before  I  give  this  man  into  your 
charge." 

Mr.  Lurcher  bent  some  portion  of  his 
body  between  his  occiput  and  his  spine, 
and,  considering  himself  temporarily  re- 
lieved from  the  custody  of  his  prisoner, 
threw  the  whole  force  of  his  contemplative 
energies  into  the  iron  safe,  in  which,  as  a 
subject,  he  appeared  immediately  to  bury 
himself. 

"  Come  here  1"  was  the  monosyllabic  com- 
mand of  the  Beast ;  addressed  both  to  father 
and  daughter.  He  led  them  into  yet  an 
inner  sanctum,  a  sort  of  cupboard,  full  of 
books  and  papers,  where  there  was  a  dread- 
ful screw  copying  press,  like  an  instrument 
of  torture  in  the  Inquisition. 

"I  will  spare  your  father,  child,  and  re- 
tain him  in  his  situation,"  continued  the 
Beast,  without  ever  taking  his  hands  from 


his  pockets,  or  altering  an  inflection  of  his 
voice,  "on  these,  and  these  conditions  only. 
My  housekeeper  is  old  and  blind,  and  I 
shall  soon  turn  her  adrift,  and  let  her  go  to 
the  workhouse — everybody  says  so,  I  be- 
lieve. The  short  time  she  will  remain,  she 
will  be  able  to  instruct  you  in  as  much  as  I 
shall  require  of  you.  You  will  have  to  keep 
this  house  for  me  and  my  clerks,  and  you 
must  never  quit  it  save  once  in  six  weeks, 
for  six  hours  at  a  time  ;  and  I  expect  you  to 
adhere  to  this  engagement  for  two  years. 
All  communication  between  you  and  vour 
family,  save  during  your  hours  of  liberty,  I 
strictly  prohibit.  You  will  have  twenty 
pounds  a  year  as  wages,  half  of  which  can 
go  to  augment  your  father's  salary.  At  the 
same  time  I  shall  require  from  him  a  writ- 
ten acknowledgment  that  he  has  embezzled 
my  monies ;  and  if  you  quit  my  service  I 
shall  use  it  against  him,  ruin  him,  and  im- 
prison him.  Make  up  your  mind  quickly, 
for  the  policeman  is  waiting." 

What  was  poor  Bessy  to  do  ?  To  part 
from  her  dear  father,  never  to  see  him  save 
at  intervals,  and  then  only  for  a  short  time  ; 
to  know  that  he  was  in  the  same  house,  and 
not  be  able  to  run  and  embrace  him.  All 
this  was  hard,  very  hard,  but  what  would  n(jt 
Bessy  do  to  save  her  father  from  ruin  and 
disgrace,  and  a  prison  ?  She  Avould  havo 
laid  down  her  life  for  him,  she  would  have 
cheerfully  consented  never  to  see  him  again 
— till  the  great  day  comes  when  we  shall 
all  meet  to  part  no  more.  She  consented  ; 
Mr.  Lurcher  was  privately  spoken  to  and 
dismissed;  the  Beast  subsided  into  his 
usual  taciturnity  ;  Bessy  led  her  stricken, 
broken,  trembling  parent  home.  They 
passed  through  the  long,  dingy  warerooms, 
the  clerks  whispering  and  looking  as  they 
passed. 

Bessy's  wardrobe  was  not  sufficiently  vo- 
luminous to  occasion  the  expenditure  of  any 
very  great  time  in  packing.  It  was  soon 
put  up,  in  a  very  small  shabby  black  box, 
studded  with  brass  nails — many  of  th<>ni 
deficient.  This,  with  Bessy  herself,  arrived 
at  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  as  pt-r 
agreement,  at  the  Cheapside  corner  of  Ur- 
sine Lane,  where  one  of  Mr.  Braddlo- 
scrogg's  porters  was  in  waiting,  who  brought 
Bessy  and  her  box  to  the  dismal  Manches- 
ter warehouse  owned  by  the  Beast  of  Ursine 
Lane. 

And  here,  in  the  top  floor  of  this  lugubrious 
mansion,  lived,  for  two  long  years,  Bessy 
Simcox.  At  stated  periods  she  saw  her  fam- 
ily for  a  few  hours,  and  then  went  back  to 
her  prison-house.  She  carved  the  beef  uni 
mutton  for  the  hungry  clerks,  she  mended 
their  linen,  she  gave  out  candles,  she  calcu- 
lated washing  bills.  The  old,  old  story  of 
Beauty  and  the  Beast  was  being  done  over 
again  in  Ursine  Lane,  Chea{)side.  Bessy 
ripened  into  a  Beauty,  iu  this  dismal  hot- 


60 


DICKE.;S'    NEW    STORIES. 


house ;  and  the  Beast  was,  as  I  have  told 
^MU  lie  alwius  was.  lit-auty  dwelt  in  no  fairy 
{lalace ;  surrounded  by  no  rose  hushes,  no 
sweet-suielling  <:;ardens,  no  invisible  hands 
to  wait  on  her  at  supper.  It  was  all  liard, 
stern,  uncompromisinj:;  nvility.  Slie  liad  to 
deal  with  an  imperious,  eullen.  brutal  mas- 
ter. Everybody  knew  it.  She  dealt  with 
him  as  Uessy  had  the  art  of  dealing  with 
every  one.  Slie  bore  with  him  meekly, 
gently,  patiently.  Slie  strove  to  win  bis 
forbearance,  his  respect.  She  won  them 
both,  and  more — his  love. 

Yes,  his  love!  Dim't  be  afraid;  the  Beast 
iifver  changed  to  Prince  Azor.  lie  never 
lay  among  the  rose  bushes  sick  to  death,  and 
threatening  to  die  unless  Beauty  married 
him.  But  at  the  end  of  the  two  years,  when 
th'Mr  contract  was  at  an  end,  and  when  its 
fulfilment  had  given  him  time  to  know 
Bessy  well,  and  to  save  the  father  through 
the  child,  he  besought  Bessy  to  remain  with 
him  in  the  same  capacity,  offering  her  muni- 
ficent terms  and  any  degree  of  liberty  she 
required  as  regarded  communication  with 
her  family.  Bessy  stayed.  She  stayed  two 
years :  she  stayed  three ;  she  stays  there 
uow,  to  witness  if  I  lie. 

Not  ahme  however.  It  occurred  to  Wil- 
liam B.,  junior — the  lad  with  the  blue  eyes 
and  fair  hair — to  grow  up  to  be  a  tall  young 
man,  and  to  fall  violently  in  love  with  the 
pr.'tty  little  housekeeper.  It  occurred  to  his 
father,  instead   of  smiting  him  on  the  hip 


immediately,  or  eating  him  up  alive  in  wild 
be<ist  fashion,  to  tell  him  he  was  a  very  sen- 
sible fellow,  and  to  incite  Bessy  (we  must 
call  her  Beauty  now)  to  encourage  his  ad- 
dresses, which  indeed,  dear  little  puss !  she 
was  nothing  loth  to  do.  So  Beauty  wae 
married.  Not  to  the  Bea';t.  but  to  the  Beast's 
son  ;  and  Beauty  and  William  and  the  Beast 
all  removed  to  a  pretty  house  in  the  prettiest 
country  near  London,  where  they  live  to  this 
day,  again  to  witness  if  I  lie. 

The  Beast  is  a  Beast  no  longer.  Every- 
body admits  that  he  is  not  a  beast  now; 
some  few  are  even  doubtful  whether  he  ever 
teas  a  Beast.  He  carries  on  the  Ursine  Lane 
business  (in  partnership  with  his  son)  still, 
and  is  a  very  rough- headed  and  rough-voiced 
old  man.  But  the  rough  kernel  and  rough 
integument  are  worn  away  from  his  heart, 
and  he  is  genial  and  jovial  among  his  depen- 
dants. Charitable  in  secret,  he  had  always 
been,  even  in  his  most  brutish  times  ;  and 
you  are  not  to  believe  (for  Braddlescroggs 
talked  nonsense  sometimes  and  he  knew  it) 
that  the  old  housekeeper,  when  she  became 
blind  or  bedridden,  was  sent  adrift  or  to  the 
workhouse  ;  that  old  John  Simcox  was  not 
allowed  sufficient  funds  for  his  pipe  and  his 
glass  (in  strict  moderation)  at  the  Admiral 
Benbow  ;  or  that  the  two  Misses  Simcox, 
when  they  married  at  last  (after  superhu- 
man exertions),  went  dowerless.  No.  The 
Beast  remembered,  and  was  generous  to 
them  all. 


p^'^^^^f**^ 


THE    ANGEL'S    STORY. 


Through  the  blue  and  frosty  heavens, 
Christmas  stars  were  shining  bright ; 

The  glistening  lamps  of  the  great  City 
Ahuos-t  matched  their  gleaming  light ; 

And  the  winter  snow  was  lying. 

And  the  winter  winds  were  sighing, 
Long  ago  one  Christmas  night. 

V^Tiile  from  every  tower  and  steeple. 
Pealing  bells  were  sounding  clear, 

(Never  with  such  tones  of  gladness. 
Save  when  Christmas  time  is  near) 

Many  a  one  that  night  was  merry, 
Who  had  toiled  through  all  the  year, 

That  night  saw  old  wrongs  forgiven, 
Friends,  long  parted,  reconcile; 

Voices,  all  unused  to  laughter. 
Eyes  that  had  forgot  to  smile. 

Anxious  hearts  that  feared  the  morrow. 
Freed  from  all  their  cares  awhile. 


Rich  and  poor  felt  the  same  blessing 
From  the  gracious  season  fall ; 

Joy  and  plenty  in  the  cottage. 
Peace  and  feasting  in  the  hall ; 

And  the  voices  of  the  children 
Ringing  clear  above  it  all ! 

Yet  one  house  was  dim  and  darkened* 
Gloom,  and  sickness,  and  despair 

Abiding  in  the  gilded  chamber. 
Climbing  up  the  marble  stair, 

Stilling  even  the  voice  of  mourning — - 
For  a  child  lay  dying  there. 

Silken  curtains  fell  around  him. 
Velvet  carpets  hushed  the  tread, 

Many  costly  toys  were  lying. 
All  unheeded,  by  his  bed; 

And  his  tangled  golden  ringlets 
Were  on  downy  pillows  spread. 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BY  THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


61 


All  the  skill  of  the  great  City 
To  save  that  little  life  was  vain ; 

That  little  thread  from  being  broken  ; 

That  fatal  word  froni  being  spoken; 
Nay,  his  very  mother's  pain, 

And  the  mighty  love  within  her, 
Could  not  give  him  health  again. 

And  she  knelt  there  still  beside  him, 
She  alone  with  strength  to  smile, 

And  to  promise  he  should  sufl'er 
No  more  in  a  little  while, 

And  with  murmur'd  song  and  story 
The  long  weary  hours  beguile. 

Suddenly  an  unseen  Presence 

Checked  these  constant  mourning  cries. 
Stilled  the  little  heart's  quick  fluttering, 

Raised  the  blue  and  wondering  eyes, 
Fixed  on  some  mysterious  vision, 

With  a  startled  sweet  surprise. 

For  a  radiant  angel  hovered 

Smiling  o'er  the  little  bed ; 
White  his  raiment,  from  his  shoulders 

Snowy  dove-like  pinions  spread, 
And  a  starlike  light  was  shining 

In  a  Glory  round  his  head. 

While,  with  tender  love,  the  angel. 

Leaning  o'er  the  httle  nest, 
In  his  arms  the  sick  child  folding, 

Laid  him  gently  on  his  breast. 
Sobs  and  wailings  from  the  mother. 

And  her  darling  was  at  rest. 

So  the  angel,  slowly  rising. 

Spread  his  wings ;  and,  through  the  air, 
Bore  the  pretty  child,  and  held  him 

On  his  heart  with  loving  care, 
A  red  branch  of  blooming  roses 

Placing  softly  by  him  there. 

While  the  child  thus  clinging,  floated 
Towards  the  mansions  of  the  Blest, 

Gazing  from  his  shining  guardian 
To  the  flowers  upon  his  breast. 

Thus  the  angel  spake,  still  smiling 
On  the  little  heavenly  guest  : 

"  Know,  O  little  one  !  that  Heaven 
Does  no  earthly  thing  disdain  ; 

Man's  poor  joys  find  there  an  echo 
Just  as  surely  as  his  pain  : 

Love,  on  earth  so  feebly  striving, 
Lives  divine  in  Heaven  again  ! 

"  Once,  in  yonder  town  below  us, 

In  a  poor  and  narrow  street, 
Dwelt  a  httle  sickly  orphan ; 

Gentle  aid,  or  pity  sweet. 
Never  in  life's  rugge*!  pathway 

Guided  his  poor  tottering  feet, 

"  All  the  striving  anxious  forethought 
That  should  only  come  with  age. 

Weighed  upon  his  baby  spirit. 

Showed  him  soon  life's  sternest  page  ; 

Grim  Want  was  his  nurse,  and  Sorrow 
Was  his  only  heritage  ! 


"  All  too  weak  for  childish  pastimes 

Drearily  the  hours  sped  ; 
On  his  hands  so  small  and  trembling 

Leaning  his  poor  aching  head, 
Or,  through  dark  and  painful  hours 

Lying  sleepless  on  no  bed, 

"  Dreaming  strange  and  longing  fancies 

Of  cool  forests  far  away  ; 
Dreams  of  rosy  happy  children, 

Laughing  merrily  at  play  ; 
Coming  home  through  green  lanes,  bearing 

Trailing  branches  of  white  May 

"  Scarce  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  heavens 
Gleamed  above  the  narrow  street. 

And  the  sultry  air  of  Summer 

(That  you  called  so  warm  and  sweet,) 

Fevered  the  poor  Orphan,  dwelling 
In  the  crowded  alley's  heat. 

"One  bright  day,  with  feeble  footsteps 
Slowly  forth  he  dared  to  crawl. 

Through  the  crowded  city's  pathways, 
Till  he  reached  a  garden  wall  ; 

Where  'mid  princely  halls  and  mansions 
Stood  the  lordliest  of  all. 

"  There  were  trees  with  giant  branches, 
Velvet  glades  where  shadows  hide  ; 

There  were  sparkling  fountains  glancing, 
Flowers  whose  rich  luxuriant  pride 

Wafted  a  breath  of  precious  perfume 
To  the  child  who  stood  outside, 

"He  against  the  gate  of  iron 

Pressed  his  wan  and  wistful  face, 

Gazing  with  an  awe-struck  pleasure 
At  the  glories  of  the  place  ; 

Never  had  his  fail  est  day-dream 

Shone  with  hall  such  wondrous  grace. 

"  You  were  playing  in  that  garden 

Throwing  blossoms  in  the  air, 
And  laughing  when  the  petals  floated 

Dovinward  on  your  golden  hair  ; 
And  the  fond  eyes  watching  o'er  you. 
And  the  splendor  spread  before  you. 

Told  a  House's  Hope  was  there. 

"  When  your  servants,  tired  of  seeing 
His  pale  face  and  want  of  woe. 

Turning  to  the  ragged  Orphan, 
Gave  him  coin,  and  bade  him  go, 

Down  his  cheeks  ho  thin  and  wasted. 
Bitter  tears  began  to  flow. 

"  But  that  look  of  childish  sorrow 
On  your  tender  young  heart  feh. 

And  you  plucked  the  reddest  roses 
From  the  tree  you  loved  so  well, 

Passing  them  through  the  stern  grating. 
With  the  gentle  word,  '  Farewell  !' 

"  Dazzled  by  the  fragrant  treasure 
And  the  gentle  voice  he  heard 

In  the  poor  forlorn  I)oy's  spirit, 
Joy  the  sleeping  Seraph  stirred  • 

In  his  hand  he  clasped  the  flowers. 
In  his  heart  the  loving  wonl. 


62 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


«  So  he  crept  to  his  poor  garret, 
Poor  no  more,  but  rich  and  bright ; 

For  the  holy  dreams  of  childhood — 

Love,  and  Rest,  and  Hope,  and  Light — 

Floated  round  the  Orphan's  pillow 
Through  the  starry  summer  night. 

"  Day  dawned,  yet  the  vision  lasted  ; 
All  too  weak  to  rise  he  lay  ; 

Did  he  dream  that  none  spoke  harshly- 
All  were  strangely  kind  that  day  ? 

Yes  ;  he  thought  his  treasured  roses 
Must  have  charmed  all  ills  away. 

"And  he  smiled,  though  they  were  fading ; 

One  by  one  their  leaves  were  shed  ; 
•  Such  blight  things  could  never  perish, 

They  would  bloom  again,'  he  said. 
When  the  next  day's  sun  had  risen, 

Child  and  flowers  both  were  dead. 


"  Know,  dear  little  one  !  our  Father 
Does  no  gentle  deed  disdain ; 

And  in  hearts  that  beat  in  heaven. 
Still  all  tender  thoughts  remain  i 

Love  on  the  cold  earth  remaining 
Lives  divine  and  pure  again  !" 

Thus  the  angel  ceased,  and  gently 
O'er  his  little  burthen  leant ; 

While  the  child  gazed  from  the  shining 
Loving  eyes  that  o'er  him  bent, 

To  the  blooming  roses  by  him. 

Wondering  what  that  mystery  meant 

Then  the  radiant  angel  answered, 
And  with  holy  meaning  smiled  : 

"Ere  your  tender,  loving  spirit 
Sin  and  the  hard  world  defiled, 

Mercy  gave  me  leave  to  seek  you : 
I  was  once  that  little  child!" 


»>>^ys»^'^^#^A»'" . 


THE    SQUIRE'S    STORY. 


In  the  year  seventeen  hundred  and  sixty- 
nine,  the  little  town  of  Barford  was  thrown 
into  a  state  of  great  excitement  by  the  in- 
telligence that  a  gentleman  (and  "quite  the 
gentleman,"  said  the  landlord  of  the  George 
Inn),  had  been  looking  at  Mr.  Clavering's 
old  house.  This  house  was  neither  in  the 
town  nor  in  the  country.  It  stood  on  the 
outskirts  of  Barford,  on  the  road-side  leading 
to  Derby.  The  last  occupant  had  been  a 
Mr.  Clavering — a  Northumberland  gentle- 
man of  good  family — who  had  come  to  live 
in  Barford  when  he  was  but  a  younger  son; 
but  when  some  elder  branches  of  the  family 
died,  he  had  returned  to  take  possession  of 
the  family  estate.  The  house  of  which  I 
speak  was  called  the  White  House,  from  its 
being  covered  with  a  grayish  kind  of  stucco. 
It  had  a  good  garden  to  the  back,  and  Mr. 
Clavering  had  built  capital  stables,  with 
what  were  then  considered  the  latest  im- 
prove-ments.  The  point  of  good  stabling 
was  expected  to  let  the  house,  as  it  was  in  a 
hunting  county ;  otherwise  it  had  few  re- 
commeniations.  There  were  many  bed- 
rooms ;  some  entered  through  others,  even 
to  the  number  of  five,  leading  one  beyond 
the  other  ;  several  sitting-rooms  of  the  small 
and  poky  kind,  wainscotted  round  with 
wood,  and  then  painted  a  heavy  slate  color  ; 
one  good  dining-room,  and  a  drawing-room 
over  it,  both  looking  into  the  garden,  with 
pleasant  bow-windows. 

Such  was  the  accommodation  offered  by 
the  White  House.  It  did  not  seem  to  be 
very  tempting  to  strangers,  though  the  good 
people  of  Barford  rather  piqued  themselves 


on  it,  as  the  largest  house  in  the  town  ;  and 
as  a  house  in  which  "townspeople"  and 
"  county  people"  had  often  met  at  Mr. 
Clavering's  friendly  dinners.  To  appreciate 
this  circumstance  of  pleasant  recollection, 
you  should  have  lived  some  years  in  a  little 
country  town,  surrounded  by  gentlemen's 
seats.  You  would  then  understand  how  a 
bow  or  a  courtesy  from  a  member  of  a  county 
family  elevates  the  individuals  who  receive 
it  almost  as  much,  in  their  own  eyes,  as  the 
pair  of  blue  garters  fringed  with  silver  did 
Mr.  Bickerstaff's  ward.  They  trip  lightly 
on  air  for  a  whole  day  afterwards.  Now 
Mr.  Clavering  was  gone,  where  could  town 
and  county  mingle  ? 

I  mention  these  things  that  you  may  have 
an  idea  of  the  desirability  of  the  letting  of 
the  White  House  in  the  Barfordites'  imagi- 
nation ;  and  to  make  the  mixture  thick  and 
slab,  you  must  add  for  yourselves  the  bustle, 
the  mystery,  and  the  importance  which 
every  little  event  either  causes  or  assumes 
in  a  small  town  ;  and  then,  perhaps,  it  will 
be  no  wonder  to  you  that  twenty  ragged 
little  urchins  accompanied  "  the  gentleman" 
aforesaid  to  the  door  of  the  White  House  ; 
and  that,  although  he  was  above  an  hour 
inspecting  it  under  the  auspices  of  Mr, 
Jones,  the  agent's  clerk,  thirty  more  ha- 
joined  themselves  on  to  the  M'ondering  crowd 
before  his  exit,  and  awaited  such  crumbs  of 
intelligence  as  they  could  gather  before  they 
were  threatened  or  whipped  out  of  hearing 
distance.  Presently  out  came  "  the  gentle- 
man" and  the  lawyer's  clerk.  The  latter 
was  speaking  as  he  followed  the  former  over 


NINE   NEW   STORIES   BY  THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


63 


the  threshold.  The  gentleman  was  tall, 
well-dressed,  handsome;  but  there  was  a 
Binister,  cold  look  in  his  quick-glancing, 
light  blue  eye,  which  a  keen  observer  might 
not  have  liked.  There  were  no  keen  ob- 
servers among  the  boys,  and  ill-conditioned 
gaping  girls.  But  they  stood  too  near ;  in- 
conveniently close  ;  and  the  gentleman, 
lifting  up  his  right  hand,  in  which  he  carried 
a  short  riding  whip,  dealt  one  or  two  sharp 
blows  to  the  nearest,  with  a  look  of  savage 
enjoyment  on  his  face  as  they  moved  away 
whimpering  and  crying.  An  instant  after, 
his  expression  of  countenance  had  changed. 

"Here  !"  said  he,  drawing  out  a  handful 
of  money,  partly  silver,  partly  copper,  and 
throwing  it  into  the  midst  of  them.  "  Scram- 
ble for  it !  fight  it  out,  my  lads !  come  this 
afternoon,  at  three,  to  the  George,  and  I'll 
throw  you  out  some  more."  So  the  boys 
hurrahed  for  him  as  he  walked  off  with  the 
agent's  clerk.  lie  chuckled  to  himself,  as 
over  a  pleasant  thought.  "  I'll  have  some 
fun  with  those  lads,"  he  said  ;  "  I'll  teach  'em 
to  come  prowling  and  prying  about  me.  I'll 
tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  make  the  money 
Ko  hot  in  the  fire  shovel  that  it  shall  burn 
their  fingers.  You  come  and  see  the  faces 
and  the  howling. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  if  you  will  dine  with 
me  at  two  ;  and  by  that  time  I  may  have 
made  up  my  mind  about  the  house." 

Mr.  Jones,  the  agent's  clerk,  agreed  to 
come  to  the  George  at  two,  but,  somehow, 
he  had  a  distaste  for  his  entertainer.  Mr. 
Jones  would  not  like  to  have  said,  even  to 
himself,  that  a  man  with  a  purse  full  of 
money,  who  kept  many  horses,  and  spoke 
familiarly  of  noblemen — above  all,  who 
thought  of  taking  the  White  House — could 
be  anything  but  a  gentleman  ;  but  still  the 
uneasy  wonder  as  to  who  this  Mr.  Robinson 
Higgins  could  be,  filled  the  clerk's  mind 
long  after  Mr.  Higgins,  Mr.  Iliggins's  ser- 
vants, and  Mr.  Iliggins's  stud,  had  taken 
possession  of  the  White  House. 

The  White  House  was  re-stuccoed  (this 
time  of  a  pale  yellow  color),  and  put  into 
thorough  repair  by  the  accommodating  and 
delighted  landlord  ;  while  his  tenant  seemed 
inclined  to  spend  any  amount  of  money  on 
internal  decorations,  which  were  showy  and 
effective  in  their  character,  enough  to  make 
the  White  House  a  nine  days'  wonder  to  the 
good  people  of  Barford.  The  slate-colored 
paints  became  pink,  and  were  picked  out 
with  gold  ;  the  oldfashioncd  bannisters  were 
replaced  by  newly  gilt  ones  ;  but  above  all, 
the  stables  were  a  sight  to  be  seen.  Since 
the  days  of  the  Roman  Emperor  never  was 
there  such  provision  made  for  the  care,  the 
comfort,  and  the  health  of  horses.  But 
every  one  said  it  was  no  wonder,  when  they 
were  led  through  Barford,  covered  up  to 
their  eyes,  but  curving  their  arched  and 
delicate  necks,  and  prancing  with  short  high 


steps,  in  repressed  eagerness.  Only  one 
groom  came  with  them  ;  yet  they  required 
the  care  of  three  men.  Mr.  Higgins,  how- 
ever, preferred  engaging  two  lads  out  of 
Barford  ;  and  Barford  highly  approved  of  his 
preference.  Not  only  was  it  kind  and 
thoughtful  to  give  employment  to  the  loung- 
ing lads  themselves,  but  they  were  receiving 
such  a  training  in  Mr.  Higgins's  stables  as 
might  fit  them  for  Doncaster  or  Newmarket. 
The  district  of  Derbyshire  in  which  Barford 
was  situated,  was  too  close  to  Leicestershire 
not  to  support  a  hunt  and  a  pack  of  hounds. 
The  master  of  the  hounds  was  a  certain  Sir 
Harry  Manley,  who  was  aut  a  huntsman  aut 
nullus.  He  measured  a  man  by  the  "  length 
of  his  fork,"  not  by  the  expression  of  his 
countenance,  or  the  shape  of  his  head.  But 
as  Sir  Harry  was  wont  to  observe,  there  was 
such  a  thing  as  too  long  a  fork,  so  his  ap- 
probation was  withheld  until  ho  had  seen  a 
man  on  horseback  ;  and  if  his  scat  tliere  was 
square  and  easy,  his  hand  light,  and  his 
courage  good,  Sir  Harry  hailed  him  as  a 
brother. 

Mr.  Higgins  attended  the  first  meet  of  the 
season,  not  as  a  subscriber  but  as  an  ama- 
teur. The  Barford  huntsmen  piqued  them- 
selves on  their  bold  riding ;  and  their 
knowledge  of  the  country  came  by  nature  ; 
yet  this  new  strange  man,  whom  nobody 
knew,  was  in  at  the  death,  sitting  on  his 
horse,  both  well  breathed  and  calm,  without 
a  hair  turned  on  the  sleek  skin  of  the  latter, 
supremely  addressing  the  old  huntsman  as 
he  hacked  off  the  tail  of  the  fox  ;  and  he,  the 
old  man,  who  was  testy  even  under  Sir 
Harry's  slightest  rebuke,  and  flew  out  on 
any  other  member  of  the  hunt  that  dared  to 
utter  a  word  against  his  sixty  years'  experi- 
ence as  stable-boy,  groom,  poacher,  and 
what  not;  he,  old  Isaac  Wormeley,  was 
meekly  listening  to  the  wisdom  of  this 
stranger,  only  now  and  then  giving  one  of 
his  quick,  up-turning,  cunning  glances,  not 
unlike  the  sharp  o'er-canny  looks  of  the  poor 
deceased  Reynard,  round  whom  the  hounds 
were  howling,  unadmonished  by  the  short 
whip,  which  was  now  tucked  into  Worme- 
ley's  well-worn  pocket.  When  Sir  Harry 
rode  into  the  copse — full  of  dead  brushwood 
and  wet  tangled  grass — and  was  followed  by 
the  members  of  the  hunt,  as  one  by  one  they 
cantered  past,  Mr.  Higgins  took  off  his  cap 
and  bowed — half  deferentially,  half  inso- 
lently— with  a  lurking  smile  in  the  corner 
of  his  eye  at  the  discomfited  looks  of  one  or 
two  of  the  laggards.  "A  famous  run,  sir," 
said  Sir  Harry.  "  The  first  time  you  have 
hunted  in  our  country,  but  I  hope  we  shall 
see  you  often." 

"  I  hope  to  become  a  member  of  the  hunt, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Higgins. 

"  Most  happy — proud,  I'm  sure,  to  receive 
so  daring  a  rider  among  us.  You  took  the 
Cropper-gate,  I  fancy ;   while  some  of  oui 


64 


DjlCkens'  new  stories. 


friends  hero" — scowling  at  one  or  two  cow- 
ards by  way  of  finishing  his  speech.  "Allow 
me  to  introduce  myself — master  of  the 
hounds" — he  fumbled  in  his  waistcoat  pocket 
for  the  card  on  which  his  name  was  formally 
inscribed.  "  Some  of  our  friends  here  are 
kind  enough  to  come  home  with  me  to  din- 
ner ;  might  I  ask  for  the  honor  ?" 

"  My  name  is  Iliggins,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger bowing,  low.  "  I  am  only  lately  come 
to  occupy  the  White  House  at  Barford,  and 
I  have  not  as  yet  presented  my  letters  of 
introduction." 

"  Hang  it !"  replied  Sir  Harry  ;  "  a  man 
with  a  seat  like  yours,  and  that  good  brush 
in  your  hand,  might  ride  up  to  any  door  in 
the  county  (I'm  a  Leicestershire  man),  and 
be  a  welcome  guest.  3Ir.  Higgins,  I  shall 
be  proud  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
you  over  my  dinner  table." 

Mr.  Iliggins  knew  pretty  well  how  to  im- 
prove the  acquaintance  thus  began.  He 
could  sing  a  good  song,  tell  a  good  story, 
and  was  well  up  in  practical  jokes;  with 
plenty  of  that  keen  worldly  sense,  which 
seems  like  an  instinct  in  some  men,  and 
which  in  this  case  taught  him  on  whom  he 
might  play  off  such  jokes,  with  impunity 
from  their  resentment,  and  with  a  security 
of  applause  from  the  more  boisterous,  vehe- 
ment or  prosperous.  At  the  end  of  twelve 
months  Mr.  Robinson  Iliggins  was,  out-and- 
out,  the  most  popular  member  of  Barford 
hunt  ;  had  beaten  all  the  others  by  a  couple 
of  lengths,  as  his  first  patron.  Sir  Harry 
observed  one  evening  when  they  were  just 
leaving  the  dinner-table  of  an  old  hunting 
squire  in  the  neighborhood. 

"  Because,  you  know,"  said  Squire  Hearn, 
holding  Sir  Harry  by  the  button — "  I  mean, 
you  see,  this  young  spark  is  looking  sweet 
upon  Catherine  ;  and  she's  a  good  girl,  and 
will  have  ten  thousand  pounds  down  the  day 
she's  married,  by  her  mother's  will ;  and — 
excuse  me,  Sir  Harry — but  I  should  not 
like  my  girl  to  throw  herself  away." 

Though  Sir  Harry  had  a  long  ride  before 
him,  and  but  the  early  and  short  light  of  a 
new  moon  to  take  it  in,  his  kind  heart  was 
so  much  touched  by  Squire  Hearn's  trem- 
bling, tearful  anxiety,  that  he  stopped,  and 
turned  back  into  the  dining-room  to  say, 
with  more  asseverations  than  I  care  to  give. 

"  My  good  Squire,  I  may  say,  I  know  that 
man  pretty  well  by  this  time  ;  and  a  better 
fellow  never  existed.  If  I  had  twenty  daugh- 
ters, he  should  have  the  pick  of  them." 

Squire  Hearn  never  thought  of  asking 
the  grounds  for  his  old  friend's  opinion  of 
Mr.  Higgins ;  it  had  been  given  with  too 
much  earnestness  for  any  doubts  to  cross 
the  old  man's  mind  as  to  the  possibility  of 
its  not  being  well  founded.  Mr.  Hearn  was 
not  a  doubter  or  a  thinker,  or  suspicious  by 
nature  ;  it  was  simply  his  love  for  Catherine, 
his  only  child,  that  prompted  his  anxiety  in 


this  case ;  and  after  what  Sir  Harry  had 
said,  the  old  man  could  totter  with  an  easy 
mind,  though  not  with  very  steady  legs, 
into  the  drawing-room,  where  his  bonny 
blushing  daughter  Catherine  and  Mr.  Hig- 
gins stood  close  together  on  the  hearth-rug 
— he  wispering,  she  listening  with  downcast 
eyes.  She  looked  so  happy,  so  like  her  dead 
mother  had  looked  when  the  Squire  was  a 
young  man,  that  all  his  thought  was  how  to 
please  her  most.  His  son  and  heir  was 
about  to  be  married,  and  bring  his  wife  to 
live  with  the  Squire  ;  Barford  and  the  White 
House  were  not  distant  an  hour's  ride  ;  and, 
even  as  these  thoughts  passed  his  mind,  he 
asked  Mr.  Higgins  if  he  could  not  stay  all 
night — the  young  moon  was  already  set — the 
roads  would  be  dark — and  Catherine  looked 
up  with  a  pretty  anxiety,  which  however, 
had  not  much  doubt  in  it,  for  the  answer. 

With  every  encouragement  of  this  kind 
from  the  old  Squire,  it  took  everbody  rather 
by  surprise  when  one  morning  it  was 
discovered  that  Miss  Catherine  Hearn  was 
missing;  and  when,  according  to  the  usual 
fashion,  in  such  cases,  a  note  was  found, 
saying  that  she  had  eloped  with  "  the  man 
of  her  heart,"  and  gone  to  Gretna  Green,  no 
one  could  imagine  why  she  could  not  quietly 
have  stopped  at  home,  and  married  in  the 
parish  church.  She  had  always  been  a  ro- 
mantic, sentimental  girl  ;  very  pretty  and 
very  affectionate,  and  very  much  spoiled, 
and  very  much  wanting  in  common  sense. 
Her  indulgent  father  was  deeply  hurt  at  this 
want  of  confidence  in  his  never-varying 
affection  ;  but  when  his  son  came,  hot  with 
indignation  from  the  Baronet's  (his  future 
father-in-law's  house,  where  every  form  of 
law  and  ceremony  was  to  accompany  his 
own  impending  marriage),  Squire  Hearn 
pleaded  the  cause  of  the  young  couple  with 
imploring  cogency,  and  protested  that  it  was 
a  piece  of  spirit  in  his  daughter,  which  he 
admired  and  was  proud  of.  However,  it 
ended  with  Mr.  Nathaniel  Hearn's  declaring 
that  he  and  his  wife  would  have  nothing  to 
do  with  his  sister  and  her  husband.  "Wait 
till  you  have  seen  him,  Nat !"  said  the  old 
Squire,  trembling  with  his  distressful  anti- 
cipations of  family  discord,  "  He's  an  excuse 
for  any  girl.  Only  ask  Sir  Harry's  opiniim 
of  him."  "  Confound  Sir  Harry  !  So  that 
a  man  sits  his  horse  well,  Sir  Harry  cares 
nothing  about  anything  else.  Who  is  this 
man — this  fellow  ?  Where  does  he  come 
from  ?  What  are  his  means  ?  Who  are  his 
family?" 

"  He  comes  from  the  south — Surrey  or 
Somersetshire,  I  forget  which  ;  and  he  pays 
his  way  well  and  liberally.  There's  not  a 
tradesman  in  Barford  but  says  he  cares  no 
more  for  money  than  for  water  ;  he  spends 
like  a  prince,  Nat.  I  don't  know  who  his 
family  are,  but  he  seals  with  a  coat  of  arms 
which  may  tell  you  if  you  want  to  know — 


NINE  NEW   STORIES    BY   THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


65 


and  he  goes  regularly  to  collect  his  rents 
from  his  estates  in  the  south.  Oh,  Nat!  if 
you  would  but  be  friendly,  I  should  be  as 
well  pleased  with  Kitty's  marriage  as  any 
father  in  the  country." 

Mr.  Nathaniel  Hearn  gloomed,  and  mut- 
tered an  oath  or  two  to  himself.  The  poor 
old  father  was  reaping  the  consequences  of 
his  weak  indulgence  to  his  two  children. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nathaniel  Ilearn  kept  apart 
from  Catherine  and  her  husband ;  and 
Squire  Ilearn  durst  never  ask  them  to  Levi- 
son  Ilall,  though  it  was  his  own  house. 
Indeed,  he  stole  away  as  if  he  were  a  culprit 
whenever  he  went  to  visit  the  White  House  ; 
and  if  he  passed  a  night  there,  he  was  fain 
to  equivocate  when  he  returned  home  the 
next  day  ;  an  equivocation  which  was  well 
interpreted  by  the  surly,  proud  Nathaniel. 
But  the  younger  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ilearn  were 
the  only  people  who  did  not  visit  at  the 
White  House.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Higgins  were 
decidedly  more  popular  than  their  brother 
and  sister-in-law.  She  made  a  very  pretty 
sweet-tempered  hostess,  and  her  education 
had  not  been  such  as  to  make  her  intolerant 
of  any  want  of  refinement  in  the  associates 
who  gathered  round  her  husband.  She  had 
gentle  smiles  for  townspeople  as  well  as 
(Njuntry  people  ;  and  unconsciously  played 
an  admirable  second  in  her  husband's 
project  of  making  himself  universally 
popular. 

But  there  is  some  one  to  make  ill-natured 
remarks,  and  draw  ill-natured  conclusions 
from  very  simple  premises,  in  every  place  ; 
and  in  Barford  this  bird  of  ill  omen  was  a 
Miss  Pratt.  She  did  not  hunt — so  Mr.  Hig- 
gins's  admirable  riding  did  not  call  out  her 
admiration.  She  did  not  drink — so  the  well- 
selected  wines  so  lavishly  dispensed  among 
his  guests,  could  never  mollify  Miss  Pratt. 
She  could  not  bear  comic  songs,  or  buffo 
stories — so,  in  that  way,  her  approbation  was 
impregnable.  And  these  three  secrets  of 
popularity  constituted  Mr.  Iliggins's  great 
charm.  Miss  Pratt  sat  and  watched.  Her 
face  looked  immoveably  grave  at  the  end  of 
any  of  Mr.  Iliggins's  best  stories  ;  but  there 
was  a  keen,  needle-like  glance  of  her  un- 
winking little  eyes,  which  Mr.  Higgins  felt 
rather  than  saw,  and  which  made  him  shiver, 
even  on  a  hot  day,  when  it  fell  upon  him. 
Miss  Pratt  was  a  dissenter,  and,  to  propiti- 
ate this  female  Mordecai,  Mr.  Higgins  asked 
the  dissenting  minister  whose  services  she 
attended  to  dinner;  kept  himself  and  his 
company  in  good  order;  gave  a  handsome 
donation  to  the  poor  of  the  chapel.  All  in 
vain — Miss  Pratt  stirred  not  a  muscle  more 
of  her  face  towards  graciousness ;  and  Mr. 
Higgins  was  conscious  that,  in  spite  of  all 
his  open  efforts  to  captivate  Mr.  Davis,  there 
was  a  secret  influence  on  the  other  side, 
throwing  in  doubts  and  suspicions,  and  evil 
interpretations  of  all  he  said  or  did.  Miss 
5 


Pratt,  the  little  plain  old  maid,  living  on 
eighty  pounds  a  year,  was  the  thorn  in  the 
popular  Mr.  Iliggins's  side,  although  she  had 
never  spoken  one  uncivil  word  to  him ;  in- 
deed, on  the  contrary,  had  treated  him  with 
a  stiff  and  elaborate  civility. 

The  thorn — the  grief  to  Mrs.  Higgins  was 
this.  They  had  no  children  !  Oh  !  how  she 
would  stand  and  envy  the  careless  busy 
motion  of  half-a-dozen  children  ;  and  then, 
when  observed,  move  on  with  a  deep,  deep 
sigh  of  yearning  regret.     But  it  was  as  well. 

It  was  noticed  that  Mr.  Higgins  was  re- 
markably careful  of  his  health.  He  ate, 
drank,  took  exercise,  rested,  by  some  secret 
rules  of  his  own  ;  occasionally  bursting  into 
an  excess,  it  is  true,  but  only  on  rare  occa- 
sions— such  as  when  he  returned  fnjm 
visiting  his  estates  in  the  south,  and  collect- 
ing his  rents.  That  unusual  exertion  and 
fatigue — for  there  were  no  stage  coaclies 
within  forty  miles  of  Barford,  and  he,  like 
most  country  gentlemen  of  that  day,  would 
have  preferred  riding  if  there  had  been— 
seemed  to  require  some  strange  excess  to 
compensate  for  it ;  and  rumors  went  through 
the  town,  that  he  shut  himself  up,  and 
drank  enormously  for  some  days  after  his 
return.  But  no  one  was  admitted  to  these 
orgies. 

One  day — they  remembered  it  well  after- 
wards— the  hounds  met  not  far  from  the 
town  ;  and  the  fox  was  found  in  a  part  of 
the  wild  heath,  which  was  beginning  to  be 
enclosed  Vjy  a  few  of  the  more  wealthy 
towns-people,  who  were  desirous  of  building 
themselves  houses  rather  more  in  the  coun- 
try than  those  they  had  hitherto  lived  in. 
Among  these  the  principal  was  a  Mr.  Dud- 
geon, the  attorney  of  Barford,  and  the  agent 
for  all  the  county  families  about.  The  firm 
of  Dudgeon  had  managed  the  leases,  the 
marriage  settlements,  and  the  wills,  of  the 
neighborhood  for  generations.  Mr.  Dud- 
geon's father  had  the  responsibility  of 
collecting  the  land-owner's  rents  just  as  the 
present  Mr.  Dudgeon  had  at  the  time  of 
which  I  speak :  and  as  his  son  and  his  son's 
son  have  done  since.  Their  business  was 
an  hereditary  estate  to  them ;  and  with 
something  of  the  old  feudal  feeling,  was 
mixed  a  kind  of  proud  humility  at  their 
position  towards  the  squires  whose  family 
secrets  they  had  mastered,  and  the  myste- 
ries of  whose  fortunes  and  estates  were 
better  known  to  the  Messrs.  Dudgeon  than 
to  themselves. 

Mr.  John  Dudgeon  had  built  himself  a 
house  on  Wildbury  Health  ;  a  mere  cottage, 
as  he  called  it ;  but  though  only  two  stories 
high,  it  spread  out  far  and  wide,  and  work- 
people from  Derby  had  been  sent  for  on  pur- 
pose to  make  the  inside  as  complete  as 
possible.  The  gardens  too  were  exquisite 
in  arrangement,  if  not  very  extensive  ;  and 
not  a  flower  was  grown  in  them  but  of  the 


66 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


rarest  species.  It  must  have  been  some- 
what of  a  mortification  to  the  owner  of  this 
dainty  place  when,  on  the  day  of  which  I 
epeaii,  the  fox,  after  a  long  race,  during 
which  he  had  described  a  circle  of  many 
miles,  took  refuge  in  the  garden  ;  but  Mr. 
Dudgeon  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter  when 
a  gentleman  hunter,  with  the  careless  in- 
solence of  the  squires  of  those  days  and  that 
place,  rode  across  the  velvet  lawn,  and  tap- 

t)rng  at  the  window  of  the  dining-room  with 
lis  whip  handle,  asked  permission — no ! 
tliat  is  not  it — rather  informed  Mr.  Dudgeon 
of  their  intention — to  enter  his  garden  in  a 
body,  and  have  the  fox  unearthed.  Mr. 
Dudgeon  compelled  himself  to  smile  assent, 
with  the  grace  of  a  masculine  Griselda  ;  and 
then  he  hastily  gave  orders  to  have  all  that 
the  house  afforded  of  provision  set  out  for 
luncheon,  guessing  rightly  enough  that  a  six 
hours'  run  would  give  even  homely  fare  an 
acceptable  welcome.  He  bore  without  win- 
cing the  entrance  of  the  dirty  boots  into  his 
exquisitely  clean  rooms ;  he  only  felt  grate- 
ful for  the  care  with  which  Mr.  Iliggins 
strode  about,  laboriously  and  noiselessly 
moving  on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  as  he  recon- 
noitred the  rooms  with  a  curious  eye. 

"  I'm  going  to  build  a  house  myself, 
Dudgeon  ;  and,  upon  my  word,  I  don't  think 
I  could  take  a  better  model  than  yours." 

"  Oh  !  my  poor  cottage  would  be  too  small 
to  afford  any  hints  for  such  a  house  as  you 
would  wish  to  build,  Mr.  Higgins,"  replied 
Mr.  Dudgeon,  gently  rubbing  his  hands 
nevertheless  at  the  compliment. 

"  Not  at  all !  Let  me  see.  You  have 
dining-room,  drawing-room" — he  hesitated, 
and  Mr.  Dudgeon  filled  up  the  blank  as  he 
expected. 

"  Four  sitting-rooms  and  the  bed-rooms. 
But  allow  me  to  show  you  over  the  house. 
I  confess  I  took  some  pains  in  arranging  it, 
and,  though  far  smaller  than  what  you 
would  require,  it  may,  nevertheless,  afford 
you  some  hints." 

So  they  left  the  eating  gentlemen  with 
their  mouths  and  their  plates  quite  full,  and 
the  scent  of  the  fox  overpowering  that  of 
the  hasty  rasher  of  ham  ;  and  they  carefully 
inspected  all  the  ground-floor  rooms.  Then 
Mr.  Dudgeon  said ; 

"  If  you  are  not  tired,  Mr.  Higgins — it  is 
rather  my  hobby,  so  you  must  pull  me  up  if 
you  are — we  will  go  up  stairs,  and  I  will 
show  you  my  sanctum." 

Mr.  Dudgeon's  sanctum  was  the  centre 
room,  over  tne  porch,  which  formed  a  bal- 
cony, and  which  was  carefully  filled  with 
choice  flowers  in  pots.  Inside,  there  were 
all  kinds  of  elegant  contrivances  for  hiding 
the  real  strength  of  all  the  boxes  and  chests 
required  by  the  particular  nature  of  ]Mr. 
Dudgeon's  business  ;  for  although  his  office 
?»as  in  Barford,  he  kept  (as  he  informed  Mr. 
Aiggins)  what  was  the  most  valuable  here, 


as  being  safer  than  an  office  which  was 
locked  up  and  left  every  night.  But,  as 
Mr.  Iliggins  reminded  him  with  a  sly  poke  in 
the  side,  when  next  they  met,  his  own  house 
was  not  over  secure.  A  fortnight  after  the 
gentlemen  of  the  Barford  hunt  lunched  there, 
Mr.  Dudgeon's  strong-box,  in  his  sanctum 
up  stairs,  with  the  mysterious  spring  b<ilt  to 
the  window  invented  by  himself,  and  the 
secret  of  which  was  only  known  to  the  in 
ventor  and  a  few  of  his  most  intimate  friends, 
to  whum  he  had  proudly  shown  it  ; — this 
strong-box,  containing  the  collected  Christ- 
mas rents  of  half  a  dozen  landlords,  (there 
was  then  no  bank  nearer  than  Derby,)  was 
rifled  ;  and  the  secretly  rich  Mr.  Dudgeou 
had  to  stop  his  agent  in  his  purchases  of 
paintings  by  Flemish  artists,  because  the 
money  was  required  to  make  good  the  miss- 
ing rents. 

The  Dogberries  and  Verges  of  those  days 
were  quite  incapable  of  obtaining  any  clue 
to  the  robber  or  robbers  ;  and  though  one  »r 
two  vagrants  were  taken  up  and  brought 
before  Mr.  Dunover  and  Mr.  Iliggins,  the 
magistrates  who  usually  attended  in  the 
court  room  at  Barford,  there  was  no  evidence 
brought  against  them,  and  after  a  couple  of 
nights'  durance  in  the  lock-ups  they  were 
set  at  liberty.  But  it  became  a  standing 
joke  with  Mr.  Higgins  to  ask  Mr.  Dudgeon, 
from  time  to  time,  whether  he  could  re- 
commend him  a  place  of  safety  for  his 
valuables  ;  or,  if  he  had  made  any  more  in- 
ventions lately  for  securing  houses  from 
robbers. 

About  two  years  after  this  time — about 
seven  years  after  Mr.  Higgins  had  been 
married — one  Tuesday  evening,  Mr.  Davis 
was  sitting  reading  the  news  in  the  coffee- 
room  of  the  George  Inn.  He  belonged  to  a 
club  of  gentlemen  who  met  there  occasion- 
ally to  play  at  whist,  to  read  what  few  news- 
papers and  magazines  were  published  in 
those  days,  to  chat  about  the  market  at 
Derby,  and  prices  all  over  the  country.  This 
Tuesday  night  it  was  a  black  frost ;  and  few 
people  were  in  the  room.  Mr.  Davis  was 
anxious  to  finish  an  article  in  the  "Gentle- 
man's Magazine;"  indeed,  he  was  making 
extracts  from  it,  intending  to  answer  it,  and 
yet  unable  with  his  small  income  to  pur- 
chase a  copy.  So  he  staid  late  ;  it  was  past 
nine,  and  at  ten  o'clock  the  room  was  closed. 
But  while  he  wrote,  Mr.  Higgins  came  in. 
He  was  pale  and  haggard  with  cold;  Mr. 
Davis,  who  had  had  for  some  time  sole  pos- 
session of  the  fire,  moved  politely  on  one 
side,  and  handed  to  the  new  comer  the  sole 
London  newspaper  which  the  room  afforded. 
Mr.  Iliggins  accepted  it,  and  made  some  re- 
mark on  the  intense  coldness  of  the  weather ; 
but  Mr.  Davis  was  too  full  of  his  article, 
and  intended  reply,  to  fall  into  conversation 
readily.  Mr.  Iliggins  hitched  his  chair 
nearer  to  the  fire,  and  put  his  feet  on  the 


NINE   NE^Y    STORIES   BY   THE    CHRISTMAS   FIRE. 


67 


fender,  giving  an  audible  shudder.  He  put 
the  newspaper  on  one  end  of  the  table  near 
him,  and  sat  gazing  into  the  red  embers  of 
the  fire,  crouching  down  over  them  as  if  his 
very  marrow  were  chilled.  At  length  he 
said : 

"  There  is  no  account  of  the  murder  at 
Bath  in  that  paper  V  Mr.  Davis,  who  had 
finished  taking  his  notes,  and  was  preparing 
to  go,  stopped  short,  and  asked : 

"  Has  there  been  a  murder  at  Bath  ?  No  ! 
I  have  not  seen  anything  of  it — who  was 
murdered  ?" 

"  Oh  !  it  was  a  shocking,  terrible  murder!" 
said  Mr.  Higgins,  not  raising  his  look  from 
the  tire,  but  gazing  on,  his  eyes  dilated  till 
the  whites  were  seen  all  round  them.  "  A 
tt-rrible,  terrible  murder!  I  wonder  what 
will  become  of  the  murderer?  I  can  fancy 
the  red  glowing  centre  of  that  fire — look  and 
see  how  infinitely  distant  it  seems,  and  how 
the  distance  magnifies  it  into  something 
awful  and  unquenchable." 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  are  feverish  ;  how  you 
shake  and  shiver!"  said  Mr.  Davis,  think- 
ing privately  that  his  companion  had  symp- 
toms of  fever,  and  that  he  was  wandering  in 
his  mind. 

"  Oh,  no  I"  said  Mr.  Higgins.  "  I  am  not 
feverish.  It  is  the  night  which  is  so  cold." 
And  for  a  time  he  talked  with  Mr.  Davis 
about  the  article  in  the  "  Gentleman's  Ma- 
gazine," for  he  was  rather  a  reader  himself, 
and  could  take  more  interest  in  Mr.  Davis's 
pursuits  than  most  of  the  people  at  Barford. 
At  length  it  drew  near  to  ten,  and  Mr.  Davis 
rose  up  to  go  home  to  his  lodgings. 

"  No,  Davis,  don't  go.  I  want  you  here. 
We  will  have  a  bottle  of  port  together,  and 
that  will  put  Saunders  in  good  humor.  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  this  murder,"  he 
continued,  dropping  his  voice,  and  speaking 
hoarse  and  low.  "She  was  an  old  woman, 
and  he  killed  her,  sitting  reading  her  Bible 
by  her  own  fireside  !"  He  looked  at  Mr. 
Davis  with  a  strange  searching  gaze,  as  if 
trying  to  find  some  sympathy  in  the  horror 
which  the  idea  presented  to  him. 

"  Who  do  you  mean,  my  dear  sir?  What 
is  this  murder  you  are  so  full  of?  No  one 
has  been  murdered  here." 

"  No,  you  fool !  I  tell  you  it  was  in  Bath !" 
said  Mr.  Higgins,  with  sudden  passion  ;  and 
then  calming  himself  to  most  velvet  smooth- 
ness of  manner,  he  laid  his  hand  on  Mr. 
Davis's  knee,  there,  as  they  sat  by  the  fire, 
and  gently  detaining  him,  began  the  narra- 
tion of  the  crime  he  was  so  full  of;  but  his 
voice  and  manner  were  constrained  to  a 
stony  quietude ;  he  never  looked  in  Mr. 
Davis's  face ;  once  or  twice,  as  Mr.  Davis 
remembered  afterwards,  his  grip  tightened 
like  a  compressing  vice. 

"  She  lived  in  a  small  house  in  a  quiet 
old-fashioned  street,  she  and  her  maid.  Peo- 
ple suid  she  was  a  good  old  woman  ;  but  for 


all  that  she  hoarded  and  hoarded,  and  never 
gave  tothe  poor.  Mr.  Davis,  it  is  wicked 
not  to  give  to  the  poor — wicked— wicked,  is 
it  not  ?  I  always  give  to  the  poor,  for  once  I 
read  in  the  Bible  that  '  Charity  covereth  a 
multitude  of  sins.'  The  wicked  old  woman 
never  gave,  but  hoarded  her  money,  and 
saved,  and  saved.  Some  one  heard  of  it;  I 
say  she  threw  a  temptation  in  his  way,  and 
God  will  punish  her  for  it.  And  this  man — 
or  it  might  be  a  woman,  who  knows  ? — and 
this  person — heard  also  that  she  went  to 
church  in  the  mornings,  and  her  maid  in  the 
afternoons  ;  and  so — while  the  maid  was  at 
church,  and  the  street  and  the  house  quite 
still,  and  the  darkness  of  a  winter  afternoon 
coming  on — she  was  nodding  over  the  Bible 
— and  that,  mark  you  !  is  a  sin,  and  one  that 
God  will  avenge  sooner  or  later  ;  and  a  step 
came  in  the  dusk  up  the  stair,  and  that  per- 
son I  told  you  of,  stood  in  the  room.  At 
first  he — no  !  At  first,  it  is  supposed — for, 
you  understand,  all  this  is  mere  guess  work, 
it  is  supposed  that  he  asked  her  civilly 
enough  to  give  him  her  money,  or  tell  him 
where  it  was ;  but  the  old  miser  defied  him, 
and  would  not  ask  for  mercy  and  give  up 
her  keys,  even  when  he  threatened  her,  but 
looked  him  in  the  face  as  if  he  had  been  a 
baby — Oh,  God  !  Mr.  Davis,  I  once  dreamt 
when  I  was  a  little  innocent  boy  that  I 
should  commit  a  crime  like  this,  and  I 
wakened  up  crying  ;  and  my  mother  com- 
forted me — that  is  the  reason  I  tremble  so 
now,  that  and  the  cold,  for  it  is  very,  very 
cold  !" 

"  But  did  he  murder  the  old  lady?"  asked 
Mr.  Davis.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I 
am  interested  by  your  story." 

"  Yes  !  he  cut  her  throat ;  and  there  she 
lies  yet  in  her  quiet  little  parlor,  with  her 
face  upturned  and  all  ghastly  white,  in  the 
middle  of  a  pool  of  blood.  Mr.  Davis,  this 
wine  is  no  better  than  water;  I  must  have 
some  brandy  I" 

Mr.  Davis  was  horror-struck  by  the  story, 
which  seemed  to  have  fascinated  him  as 
much  as  it  had  done  his  companion. 

"  Have  they  got  any  clue  to  the  mur- 
derer?" said  he.  Mr.  Higgins  drank  down 
half  a  tumbler  of  raw  brandy  before  he  an- 
swered. 

"  ^0  !  no  clue  whatever.  They  will  never 
be  able  to  discover  him,  and  1  should  not 
wonder — Mr.  Davis — I  should  not  wunder  if 
he  repented  after  all,  and  did  bitter  penance 
for  his  crime  ;  and  if  so — will  there  be  mercy 
for  him  at  the  last  day?" 

"  God  knows,"  said  Mr.  Davis  with  so 
lemnity.  "  It  is  an  awful  story,"  continued 
he,  rousing  himself:  "I  hardly  like  to  leave 
this  warm  light  room  and  go  out  into  the 
darkness  after  hearing  it.  But  it  must  be 
done,"  buttoning  on  his  great  coat — "  1  can 
only  say  I  hope  and  trust  they  will  find  out 
the  murderer,  and  hang  him.     If  you'll  tak« 


68 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES. 


my  advice,  ynu'U  liivve  a  bed  warmed,  and 
drink  a  ti-cacle-pusset  juwt  the  last  thing  ; 
and,  it'  you'll  alluw  me,  I'll  send  you  my 
answer  U)  I'hilologus  before  it  goes  up  to  old 
Urban." 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Davis  went  to  call 
on  Miss  Pratt,  wlio  was  not  very  well ;  and 
by  way  of  being  agreeable  and  entertaining, 
he  related  to  her  all  he  had  heard  the  night 
before  about  the  murder  in  Bath,  and  really 
be  made  a  very  pretty  connected  story  out 
of  it,  and  interested  Miss  Pratt  very  much 
in  the  fate  of  the  old  lady — partly  because 
of  a  similarity  in  their  situations ;  for  she 
also  hoarded  money,  and  had  but  one  ser- 
vant, and  stopped  at  home  alone  on  Sunday 
afternoons  to  allow  her  servant  to  go  to 
church. 

''  And  vrhen  did  all  this  happen  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  don't  know  if  Mr.  Higgins  named  the 
day ;  and  yet  I  think  it  must  have  been  on 
this  very  last  Sunday." 

*'  And  to-day  is  Wednesday.  Ill  news 
travels  fast. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Higgins  thought  it  might  have 
been  in  the  London  newspaper." 

"  That  it  could  never  be.  Where  did  Mr. 
Higgins  learn  all  about  it  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I  did  not  ask  ;  I  think 
he  only  came  home  yesterday :  he  had 
been  south  to  collect  his  rents,  somebody 
said." 

Miss  Pratt  grunted.  She  used  to  vent 
her  dislike  and  suspicions  of  Mr.  Higgins 
in  a  grunt  whenever  his  name  was  men- 
tioned. 

"  Well,  I  shan't  see  you  for  some  days. 
Godfrey  Merton  has  asked  me  to  go  and 
stay  with  him  and  his  sister ;  and  I  think  it 
will  do  me  good.  Besides,"  added  she, 
"these  winter  evenings;  and  these  mur- 
derers at  large  in  the  country;  I  don't  quite 
like  living  with  only  Peggy  to  call  to  in  case 
of  need." 

Miss  Pratt  went  to  stay  with  her  cousin, 
Mr.  Merton.  He  was  an  active  magistrate, 
and  enjoyed  his  reputation  as  such.  One 
day  he  came  in,  having  just  received  his 
letters. 

•'  Bad  account  of  the  morals  of  your  little 
town  here,  Jessy  !"  said  he,  touching  one  of 
the  letters.  "  You've  either  a  murderer 
among  you,  or  some  friend  of  a  murderer. 
Here's  a  poor  old  lady  at  Bath  had  her  throat 
cut  last  Sunday  week ;  and  I've  a  lettor  from 
the  Home  Office,  asking  to  lend  them  '  my 
very  efficient  aid,'  as  they  are  pleased  to  call 
it,  towards  finding  out  the  culprit.  It  seems 
he  must  have  been  thirsty,  and  of  a  com- 
fortable jolly  turn ;  for  before  going  to  his 
horrid  work  he  tapped  a  barrel  of  ginger 
wine  the  old  lady  had  set  by  to  work ;  and 
he  wrapped  the  spigot  round  with  a  piece 
of  a  letter  taken  out  of  his  pocket,  as  may 
be  supposed  ;  and  this  piece  of  a  letter  was 


found  afterwards ;  there  are  only  these  let- 
ters on  the  outside,  '  ?i3,  Esq.,  -arford,  -eg- 
zvorth,'  which  some  one  has  ingeniously 
made  out  to  mean  Barford,  near  Kegworth. 
On  the  other  side  there  is  some  allusion  to 
a  race-horse,  I  conjecture  though  the  name 
is  singular  enough  :  '  Church-and-King-and- 
down-with-the-Kump.' "' 

Miss  Pratt  caught  at  this  name  imme- 
diately ;  it  had  hurt  her  feelings  as  a  dis- 
senter only  a  few  months  ago,  and  she  re- 
membered it  well. 

"  Mr.  Nat  Hearn  has — or  had  (as  I  am 
speaking  In  the  witness-box,  as  it  were,  I 
must  take  care  of  my  tenses),  a  horse  with 
that  ridiculous  name." 

"  Mr.  Nat  Hearn,"  repeated  Mr.  Merton, 
making  a  note  of  the  intelligence  ;  then  he 
recurred  to  his  letter  from  the  Home  Office 
again. 

"  There  is  also  a  piece  of  a  small  key, 
broken  in  the  futile  attempt  to  open  a  desk 
— well,  well.  Nothing  more  of  conse- 
quence. The  letter  is  what  we  must  rely 
upon." 

"Mr.  Davis  said  that  Mr.  Higgins  told 
him" — Miss  Pratt  began. 

"  Higgins  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Merton,  "  ns. 
Is  it  Higgins,  the  blustering  fellow  that  ran 
away  with  Nat  Ilearn's  sister?" 

"Yes!"  said  Miss  Pratt.  "  But  though 
he  has  never  been  a  favorite  of  mine — " 

"  ns"  repeated  Mr.  Merton.  It  is  too  hor- 
rible to  think  of  ;  a  member  of  the  hunt — 
kind  old  Squire  Ilearn's  son-in-law  !  AVho 
else  have  you  in  Barford  with  names  that 
end  in  ns  ?" 

"  There's  Jackson,  and  Iligginson,  and 
Blenkinsop,  and  Davis  and  Jones,  Cousin  ! 
One  thing  strikes  me — how  did  Mr.  Hig- 
gins know  all  about  it  to  tell  Mr.  Davis  on 
Tuesday  what  had  happened  on  Sunday 
afternoon  ?" 

There  is  no  need  to  add  much  more. 
Those  curious  in  the  lives  of  the*highway- 
men  may  find  the  name  of  Higgins  as  con- 
spicuous among  those  annals  as  that  of 
Claude  Duval.  Kate  Hearn's  husband  col- 
lected his  rents  on  the  highway,  like  many 
other  "  gentlemen"  of  the  day  ;  but  having 
been  unlucky  in  one  or  two  of  his  adven- 
tures, and  hearing  exaggerated  accounts 
of  the  hoarded  wealth  of  the- old  lady  at 
Bath,  he  was  led  on  from  robbery  to  mur- 
der, and  was  hung  for  his  crime  at  Derby, 
in  seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-five. 

He  had  not  been  an  unkind  husband  ; 
and  his  poor  wife  took  lodgings  in  Derby 
to  be  near  him  in  his  last  moments  ;  hia 
awful  last  moments.  Her  old  father  went 
with  her  everywhere  but  into  her  husband's 
cell ;  and  wrung  her  heart  by  constantly 
accusing  himself  of  having  promoted  her 
marriage  with  a  man  of  whom  he  knew  so 
little.  He  abdicated  his  squireship  in  fa- 
vor of  his   son  Nathaniel.     Nat  was  pros- 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BY   THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


60 


perous,  and  the  helpless  silly  father  could 
be  of  no  use  to  him  ;  but  to  his  widowed 
daughter  the  foolish  fond  old  man  was  all 
in  all;  her  knight,  her  protector,  her  com- 
panion, her  most  faithful  loving  companion. 
Only  he  ever  declined  assuming  the  office 
of  her  counsellor-^shaking  his  head  sadly, 
and  saying — 

"  Ah  !  Kate,  Kate  !  if  I  had  had  more 
wisdom  to  have  advised  thee  better,  thou 
need'st  not  have  been  an  exile  here  in 
Brussels,  shrinking  from  the  sight  of  every 
English  person  as  if  they  knew  thy  story." 


I  saw  the  White  House  not  a  month  ago ; 
it  was  to  let,  perhaps  for  the  twentieth  time 
since  Mr.  Higgins  occupied  it ;  but  still  the 
tradition  goes  in  Barford  that  once  upon  a 
time  a  highwayman  lived  there,  and  amassed 
untold  treasures ;  and  that  the  ill-gotten 
wealth  yet  remains  walled  up  in  some  un- 
known concealed  chamber ;  but  in  what 
part  of  the  house  no  one  knows. 

Will  any  of  you  become  tenants  and  try 
to  find  out  this  mysterious  closet?  I  can 
furnish  the  exact  address  to  any  applicant 
who  wishes  for  it. 


•«^^v/^^ -^  ##^S/S(V«.. 


UNCLE    GEORGE'S    STOHY. 


We  had  devoted  the  morning  before  my 
wedding-day  to  the  arrangement  of  those 
trtiublej^ome,  delightful,  endless  little  af- 
fairs, which  the  world  says  must  be  set  in 
order  on  such  occasions  ;  and  late  in  the 
afternoon,  we  walked  down,  Charlotte  and 
myself,  to  take  a  last  bachelor  and  maiden 
peep  at  the  home  which,  next  day,  was  to  be 
ours  in  partnership.  Goody  Barnes,  al- 
ready installed  as  our  cook  and  house- 
keeper, stood  at  the  door,  read}'  to  receive 
us  as  we  crossed  the  market-place  to  in- 
spect our  cottage  for  the  twentieth  time, — 
cottage  by  courtesy, — next  door  to  my  fa- 
ther's mansiiin,  by  far  the  best  and  hand- 
somest in  the  place.  It  was  some  distance 
from  Charkitte's  house,  where  she  and  her 
widowed  mother  lived  ; — all  the  way  down 
the  lime-tree  avenue,  then  over  the  breezy 
common,  besides  traversing  the  principal 
and  only  street,  which  terminated  in  the 
village  market-place. 

The  front  of  our  house  was  quakerlike, 
in  point  of  neatness  and  humility.  But 
enter  !  It  is  not  hard  to  display  good  taste 
when  the  banker's  book  puts  no  veto  on  the 
choice  gems  of  furniture,  which  give  the 
finishing  touch  to  the  whole.  Then  pass 
through,  and  bestow  a  glance  upon  our 
living  rooms,  looking  down  upon  that  great- 
est of  luxuries,  a  terraced  garden,  com- 
manding the  country — and  not  a  little  of 
that  country  mine  already, — the  farm  which 
my  father  had  given  me,  to  keep  me  quiet 
and  contented  at  home.  For  the  closing 
perspective  of  our  view,  there  was  the  sea, 
like  a  bright  blue  rampart  rising  before  us. 
White-sailed  vessels,  or  self-willed  steamers, 
flitted  to  and  fro  for  our  amusement. 

We  tripped  down  the  terrace-steps,  and 
of  course  looked  in  upon  the  little  artificial 
grotto  to  the  right,  wiiich  I  had  caused  to 
be  lined  throughout  with  foreign  shells  and 


glittering  spars, — more  gifts  from  my  ever- 
bountiful  father.  Cherlotte  and  I  went 
laughingly  along  the  straight  gravel  walk, 
flanked  on  each  side  with  a  regiment  of 
dahlias  ;  that  led  us  to  the  little  gate,  open- 
ing to  give  us  admission  to  my  fother's  own 
pleasure-ground  and  orchard. 

The  dear  old  man  was  rejoiced  to  receive 
us.  A  daughter  was  what  he  so  long  had 
wished  for.  We  hardly  knew  whether  to 
smile,  or  weep  for  joy,  as  we  all  sat  together 
on  the  same  rustic  bench,  overshadowed  by 
the  tulip-tree,  which  some  one  said  my  fa- 
ther had  himself  brought  from  North  Ame- 
rica. But  of  the  means  by  which  he  became 
possessed  of  many  of  his  choicest  treasures, 
he  never  breathed  a  syllable  to  me.  Ilia 
father,  I  very  well  knew,  was  nothing  more 
than  a  homely  farmer,  cultivating  no  great 
extent  of  not  too  productive  sea-side  land  ; 
but  Charlotte's  lace  dress,  which  she  was  to 
wear  to-morrow — again  another  present  irom 
him — was,  her  mother  proudly  pronounced, 
valuable  and  handsome  enough  for  a  princess. 

Charlotte  half  whispered,  half  said  aloud, 
that  she  had  no  fear  now  that  Richard  Le- 
roy,  her  boisterous  admirer,  would  dare  to 
attempt  his  reported  threat  to  carry  her  oflF 
to  the  continent  in  his  cutter.  Richard's 
name  made  my  fixther  frown,  so  we  said  no 
more ;  we  lapsed  again  into  that  dreamy 
state  of  silent  enjoyment,  which  was  the 
best  expression  of  our  happiness. 

Leroy's  father  was  called  a  farmer;  but 
on  our  portion  of  the  English  coast  there 
are  many  things  that  are  well  understood 
rather  than  clearly  and  distinctly  expressed  ; 
and  no  one  had  ever  enlightened  my  igno- 
rance. My  father  was  on  speaking  terms 
with  him,  that  was  all ;  courteous,  but  dis- 
tant; half  timid,  half  mysterious.  He  dis- 
couraged my  childish  intimacy  with  Rich- 
ard ;  yet  be  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  forbid  it. 


ro 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES, 


Once,  when  I  urged  him  to  allow  me  to 
accompany  youn>5  Lero_v  in  his  boat,  to  fish 
in  the  Channel  one  calm  and  bright  sum- 
mer morning,  he  peremptorily  answered, 
"  No  !  I  do  not  wish  you  to  learn  to  be  a 
smuggler."  But  then,  he  instantly  checked 
himself,  and  afterwards  was  more  anxious 
and  kind  to  me  than  ever.  Still  Richard 
and  I  continued  playfellows  until  we  gi-ew 
up,  and  botli  admired  Charlotte.  He  would 
have  made  a  formal  proposal  for  her  hand, 
if  the  marked  discouragement  of  her  family 
had  not  shut  out  every  opportunity.  This 
touched  his  pride,  and  once  made  him  de- 
clare, in  an  off-hand  way,  that  it  would  cost 
him  but  very  little  trouble  to  land  such  a 
light  cargo  as  that,  some  pleasant  evening, 
iu  France,  or  even  on  one  of  the  Azore 
Islands,  if  orange  groves  and  orange  blos- 
soms were  what  my  lady  cared  about.  It 
is  wonderful  how  far,  and  how  swiftly, 
heedless  words  do  fly  when  once  they  are 
uttered.  Such  speeches  did  not  close  the 
breach,  but,  instead,  laid  the  first  founda- 
tion for  one  of  those  confirmed  estrange- 
ments which  village  neighborhoods  only 
know.  The  repugnance  manifested  by  Char- 
lotte's friends  was  partly  caused  by  the 
mystery  which  hung  to  Richard's  ample 
means.  The  choice  was  unhesitatingly  made 
in  my  favor.  In  consequence,  as  a  sort  of 
rejected  candidate,  Richard  Leroy  really 
did  lie,  amongst  us,  under  an  unexpressed 
and  indefinite  ban,  which  was  by  no  means 
likely  to  be  removed  by  the  roystering  soorn- 
ful  air  of  superiority  with  which  he  mostly 
spoke  of,  looked  at,  and  treated  us. 

Charlotte  and  I  took  leave  of  my  father 
on  that  gray  September  evening  with  the 
full  conviction  that  every  blessing  was  in 
store  for  us  which  afi'ection  and  wealth  had 
the  power  to  procure.  Over  the  green,  and 
up  the  lime-tree  avenue,  and  then,  good- 
night, my  lady-love  ?  Good-night,  thus  part- 
ing, for  the  very  last  time.  To-morrow — 
ah  !  think  of  to-morrow.  The  quarters  of 
tlie  church  clock  strike  half-past  nine. 
Good-night,  dear  mother-in-law.  And,  once 
more,  good-night,  Charlotte ! 

It  was  somewhat  early  to  leave  ;  but  my 
father's  plans  required  it.  He  desired  that 
we  should  be  married,  not  at  the  church  of 
the  village  where  we  all  resided,  but  at 
one  distant  a  short  walk,  in  which  he  took 
a  peculiar  interest — where  he  had  selected 
the  spot  for  a  family  burial-place,  and  where 
he  wished  the  family  registers  to  be  kept. 
It  was  a  secluded  hamlet ;  and  my  father 
had  simply  made  the  request  that  I  would 
lodge  for  awhile  at  a  farm-house  there,  in 
order  that  the  wedding  might  be  performed 
at  the  place  he  fixed  his  heart  upon.  My 
duty  and  my  interest  were  to  obey. 

"Good  night,  Charlotte,"  had  not  long 
been  uttered,  before  I  was  fairly  on  the  way 
to  my  temporary  home.     Our  village,  and 


its  few  scattered  lights,  were  soon  left  be« 
hind,  and  I  then  was  upon  the  open  down, 
walking  on  with  a  springing  step.  On  one 
side  was  spread  the  English  Channel :  and 
from  time  to  time  I  could  mark  the  appear- 
ance of  the  light  at  Cape  Grinez,  on  the 
French  coast  opposite.  There  it  was,  coming 
and  going,  flashing  out  and  dv^ing  away, 
with  never-ceasing  coquetry.  The  cliff  lay 
between  my  path  and  the  sea.  There  was 
no  danger ;  for,  although  the  moon  was  not 
up,  it  was  bright  starlight.  I  knew  every 
inch  of  the  way  as  well  as  I  did  my  father's 
garden  walks.  In  September,  however, 
mists  will  rise ;  and,  as  I  approached  the 
valley,  there  came  the  offspring  of  the  pretty 
stream  which  ran  through  it,  something  like 
a  light  cloud  running  along  the  ground  be- 
fore the  wind.  Is  there  a  night  fog  coming 
on  ?  Perhaps  there  may  be.  If  so,  better 
steer  quite  clear  of  the  cliff,  by  means  of  a 
gentle  circuit  inland.  It  is  quite  impossible 
to  miss  the  valley ;  and,  once  in  the  valley- 
it  is  equally  difficult  to  miss  the  hamlet, 
Richard  Leroy  has  been  frequently  back- 
ward and  forward  the  last  few  evenings  :  it 
would  be  strange  if  we  should  chance  to 
meet  here,  and  on  such  an  occasion. 

On,  and  still  on,  cheerily.  In  a  few 
minutes  more  I  shall  reach  the  farm,  and 
then,  to  pass  one  more  solitary  night  is 
almost  a  pleasurable  delay,  a  refinement  in 
happiness.  I  could  sing  and  dance  for  joy. 
Yes,  dance  all  alone,  on  this  elastic  turf! 
There:  just  one  foolish  caper  ;  just  one 

Good  God !  is  this  not  the  shock  of  an 
earthquake  ?  I  hasten  to  advance  another 
step,  but  the  ground  beneath  me  quivers 
and  sinks.  I  grasp  at  the  side  of  the  yawn- 
ing pitfall,  but  grasp  in  vain,  Down,  down, 
down,  I  f\ill  headlong. 

When  my  senses  returned,  and  I  could 
look  about  me,  the  moon  had  risen,  and  was 
shining  in  at  the  treacherous  hole  through 
which  I  had  fallen.  A  glance  was  only  too 
suflScient  to  explain  my  position.  Why  had 
I  always  so  foolishly  refused  to  allow  the 
farmer  to  meet  me  half  way,  and  accompany 
me  to  his  house  every  evening;  knowing, 
as  I  did  know,  how  the  chalk  and  limestone 
of  ihe  district  had  been  undermined  in  cata- 
combs, sinuous  and  secret,  for  wells,  flint, 
manure,  building  materials,  and  other  pur- 
poses ?     My  poor  father  and  Charlotte  ! 

Patience.  It  can  hardly  be  possible  that 
now,  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  I  am  suddenly 
doomed  to  a  lingering  death.  The  night 
must  be  passed  here,  and  daylight  will  show 
some  means  of  escape.  I  will  lie  down  on 
this  heap  of  earth  that  fell  under  me. 

Amidst  despairing  thoughts,  and  a  hideous 
waking  nightmare,  daylight  slowly  came. 

The  waning  moon  had  not  revealed  the 
extremity  of  my  despair;  but  now  it  was 
clearly  visible  that  I  had  fallen  double  the 
height  I  supposed.     But  for  the  turf  which 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BY   THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


71 


had  fallen  under  me,  I  must  have  been  killed 
on  the  spot.  The  hole  was  too  large  for  me 
to  creep  up,  by  pressing  against  it  with  my 
back  and  knees  ;  and  there  were  no  friendly 
knobs  or  protuberances  visible  up  its  smooth 
sides.  The  chasm  increased  in  diameter  as 
it  descended,  like  an  inverted  funnel.  I 
might  possibly  climb  up  a  wall ;  but  could  I 
creep  along  a  ceiling. 

I  shouted  as  I  lay  ;  no  one  answered.  I 
shouted  again — and  again.  Then  I  thought 
that  too  much  shouting  would  exhaust  my 
strength,  and  unfit  me  for  the  task  of  mount- 
ing. I  measured  with  my  eye  the  distances 
from  stratum  to  stratum  of  each  well-marked 
layer  of  chalk.  And  then,  the  successive 
beds  of  flint — they  gave  me  the  greatest 
hopes.  If  foot-holes  could  only  be  cut ! 
Though  the  feat  was  difiicult,  it  might  be 
practicable.     The  attempt  must  be  made. 

I  arose,  stiff  and  bruised.  No  matter. 
The  first  layer  of  flints  was  not  more  than 
seven  or  eight  feet  overhead.  Those  once 
reached,  I  could  secure  a  footing,  and  obtain 
a  first  starting-place  for  escape.  I  tried  to 
climb  to  them  with  my  feet  and  hands. 
Impossible !  the  crumbling  wall  would  not 
support  half  my  weight.  As  fast  as  I  at- 
tempted to  get  handhold  or  footing,  it  fell  in 
fragments  to  the  ground. 

But,  a  better  thought — to  dig  it  away,  and 
make  a  mound  so  high  that,  by  standing  on 
it.  I  could  manage  to  reach  the  flint  with  my 
hands.  I  had  my  knife  to  help  me  ;  and, 
after  much  hard  work,  my  object  was  ac- 
complished and  I  got  within  reach  of  the 
shelf. 

My  hands  had  firm  hold  of  the  horizontal 
flint.  They  were  cut  Mith  clinging;  but  I 
found  that,  by  raising  myself,  and  then 
thrusting  my  feet  into  the  chalk  and  marl, 
I  could  support  myself  with  one  hand  only, 
leaving  the  other  free  to  work.  I  did  work  ; 
clearing  away  the  chalk  above  the  flint,  so 
as  to  give  me  greater  standing-room.  At 
last,  I  thought  I  might  venture  upon  the 
ledge  itself.  By  a  supreme  effort,  I  reached 
the  shelf;  but  moisture  had  made  the  chalk 
unctuous  and  slippery  to  the  baffled  grasp. 
It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  mounting  higher, 
with  no  point  of  support,  no  firm  footing. 
A  desperate  leap  acoss  the  chasm  afforded 
not  the  slightest  hope  ;  because,  even  if  suc- 
cessful, I  could  not  for  one  moment  maintain 
the  advantage  gained.  I  was  determined  to 
remain  on  the  ledge  of  flint.  Another  mo- 
ment, and  a  rattling  on  the  floor  soon  taught 
my  powerlessness.  Down  sunk  the  chalk 
beneath  my  weight ;  and  the  stony  table  fell 
from  its  fixture,  only  just  failing  to  crush 
me  under  it.  Stunned  and  cut,  and  bruised, 
I  spent  some  time  prostrated  by  half-con- 
ecious  but  acute  sensations  of  misery.  Sleep, 
which  as  yet  I  had  not  felt,  began  to  steal 
over  me,  but  could  gain  no  mastery.  With 
each  moment  of  incipient  unconsciousness, 


Charlotte  was  presented  to  me,  first,  in  her 
wedding-dress  ;  next,  on  our  terrace,  beckon- 
ing me  gaily  from  the  garden  below :  then, 
we  were  walking  arm-in-arm  in  smiling  con- 
versation ;  or  seated  happily  together  in  my 
father's  library.  But  the  full  consciousness 
which  rapidly  succeeded  presented  each  mo- 
ment the  hideous  truth.  It  was  now  broad 
day  ;  and  I  realised  Charlotte's  sufferings. 
I  beheld  her  awaiting  me  in  her  bridal  dress  ; 
now  hastening  to  the  window,  and  straining 
her  sight  over  the  valley,  in  the  hope  of  my 
approach  ;  now  stricken  down  by  despair  at 
my  absence.  My  father,  too,  whose  life  had 
been  always  bound  up  in  mine!.  These 
fimcies  destroyed  my  power  of  thought.  I 
felt  wild  and  frenzied.  I  raved  and  shouted, 
and  then  listened,  knowing  no  answer  could 
come. 

But  an  answer  did  come:  a  maddening 
answer.  The  sound  of  bells,  dull,  dead,  and 
in  my  hideous  well-hole,  just  distinguishaMe. 
They  rang  out  my  marriage-peal.  Why 
was  I  not  buried  alive  when  I  first  fell? 

I  could  have  drunk  blood,  in  my  thirst, 
had  it  been  offered  to  me.  Die  I  must,  I 
felt  full  well :  but  let  me  not  die  with  my 
mouth  in  flame?  Tlien  came  the  struggle 
of  sleep  ;  and  then  fitful,  tantalizing  dreams. 
Charlotte  appeared  to  me  plucking  grapes, 
and  dropping  them  playfully  into  my 
mouth  ;  or  catching  water  in  the  hollow  of 
her  hand,  from  the  little  cascade  in  our 
grotto,  and  I  drank.  But  hark!  drip,  drip, 
and  again  drip  !  Is  this  madness  still  ?  No 
There  must  be  water  oozing  somewhere  out 
of  the  sides  of  this  detested  hole.  Where 
the  treacherous  wall  is  slimiest,  where  the 
green  patches  are  brightest  and  widest 
spread  on  the  clammy  sides  of  my  living 
sepulchre,  there  will  be  the  spot  to  dig  and 
to  search. 

Again  the  knife.  Every  blow  gives  a 
more  dead  and  hollow  sound.  The  chalk 
dislodged  is  certainly  not  moister  ;  but  the 
blade  sticks  fast  into  wood — the  wood  of  a 
cask ;  something  slowly  begins  to  trickle 
down.     It  is  brandy! 

Brandy  !  shall  I  taste  it  ?  Yet,  why  not? 
I  did ;  and  soon  for  a  time  remembered 
nothing. 

I  retained  a  vivid  and  excited  conscious- 
ness up  to  one  precise  moment,  which  might 
liave  been  marked  by  a  stop-watch,  and  tlien 
all  outward  things  were  shut  out,  as  sud- 
denly as  if  a  lamp  had  been  extinguished. 
A  long  and  utter  blank  succeeded.  I  have 
no  further  recollection  either  of  the  duration 
of  time,  or  of  any  bodily  suffering.  Had  I 
died  by  alcoholic  poison — and  it  is  a  miracle 
the  brandy  did  not  kill  me — then  would 
have  been  the  end  of  my  actual  and  con 
scions  existence.  My  senses  were  dead. 
If  what  happened  afterwards  had  occurred 
at  that  time,  there  would  have  beer  no  story 
for  you  to  listen  to. 


72 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES. 


Once  more,  a  burning  thirst.  Hunger 
had  entirely  passed  away.  I  looked  up,  and 
all  was  dark  ;  not  even  the  stars  or  the 
cloudy  sky  were  to  be  seen  at  the  opening 
of  my  cavern.  A  shower  of  earth  and  heavy 
stones  fell  upon  me  as  I  lay.  I  still  was 
barely  awake  and  conscious,  and  a  groan 
was  the  only  evidence  which  escaped  me 
that  I  had  again  recovered  the  use  of  my 
senses. 

"Halloa!  What's  that  down  there?" 
said  a  voice,  whoso  tone  was  familiar  to  me. 
I  uttered  a  faint  but  frantic  cry. 

I  heard  a  moment's  whispering,  and  the 
hollow  echo  of  departing  footsteps,  and  then 
all  was  still  again.  The  voice  overhead 
once  more  addressed  me. 

"  Courage,  George  ;  keep  up  your  spirits  ! 
In  two  minutes  I  will  come  and  haul  you. 
Don't  you  know  me  ?" 

I  then  did  know  that  it  could  be  no  other 
than  my  old  rival,  Richard  Leroy.  Before 
I  could  collect  my  thoughts,  a  light  glim- 
mered against  one  side  of  the  well ;  and  then, 
in  the  direction  opposite  the  fallen  table  of 
flint,  and  just  over  it,  Richard  appeared, 
with  a  lantern  in  one  hand,  and  a  rope  tied 
to  a  stick  across  it  in  the  other. 

"  Have  you  strength  enough  left  to  sit 
upon  this,  and  to  hold  by  the  rope  while  I 
haul  you  up  ?" 

"  I  think  I  have,"  I  said.  I  got  the  stick 
under  me,  and  held  by  the  rope  to  keep 
steady  on  my  seat.  Richard  planted  his 
feet  firmly  on  the  edge  of  his  standing-place, 
and  hauled  me  up.  By  a  sleight  of  hand 
and  an  effort  of  strength,  in  which  I  was  too 
weak  to  render  him  the  least  assistance,  he 
landed  me  at  the  mouth  of  a  subterranean 
gallery  opening  into  the  well.  I  could  just 
see,  on  looking  back,  that  if  I  had  only 
maintained  my  position  on  the  ledge  of  flint, 
and  improved  it  a  little,  I  might,  by  a  daring 
and  vigorous  leap,  have  sprung  to  the  en- 
trance of  this  very  gallery.  But  those  ideas 
were  now  useless.  I  was  so  thoroughly 
worn  out  that  I  could  scarcely  stand,  and  an 
©nti-eaty  for  water  preceded  even  my  ex- 
pression of  thanks. 

"  You  shall  drink  your  fill  in  one  instant, 
and  I  am  heartily  glad  to  have  helped  you  ; 
but  first  let  me  mention  one  thing.  It  is 
understood  that  yoa  keep  my  secret.  You 
cannot  leave  this  place — unless  I  blindfold 
you,  which  would  be  an  insult — without 
learning  the  way  to  return  to  it ;   and,  of 


course,  what  you  see  along  the  galleries  are 
to  you  nothing  but  shadows  and  dreams. 
Have  I  your  promise  ? 

I  was  unable  to  make  any  other  reply 
than  to  seize  his  hand,  and  burst  into  tears. 
How  I  got  from  the  caverns  to  the  face  of 
the  cliff,  how  thence  to  the  beach,  the  seclu- 
ded hamlet,  and  the  sleeping  village,  does 
really  seem  to  my  memory  like  a  vision. 
On  the  way  across  the  downs,  Leroy  stopped 
once  or  twice,  more  for  the  sake  of  resting 
my  aching  limbs,  than  of  taking  breath  or 
repose  himself.  During  those  intervals,  he 
quietly  remarked  to  me  how  prejudiced  and 
unfair  we  had  all  of  us  been  to  him ;  that  as 
for  Charlotte,  he  considered  her  as  a  child, 
a  little  sister,  almost  even  as  a  baby  play- 
thing. She  was  not  the  woman  for  him; 
he,  for  his  part,  liked  a  girl  with  a  little 
more  of  the  devil  about  her.  No  doubt  he 
could  have  carried  her  off;  and  no  doubt  she 
would  have  loved  him  desperately  a  fort- 
night afterwards.  But,  when  he  had  once 
got  her,  what  should  he  have  done  with 
such  a  blue-eyed  milk-and-water  angel  as 
that !  Nothing  serious  to  annoy  us  had 
ever  entered  his  head.  And  my  father 
ought  not  quite  to  forget  the  source  of  his 
own  fortune,  and  hold  himself  aloof  from 
his  equals;  although  he  might  be  lying 
quiet  in  harbor  at  present.  Really,  it  was 
a  joke,  that,  instead  of  eloping  with  the 
bride,  he  should  be  bringing  home  the 
eloped  bridegroom ! 

I  fainted  when  he  carried  me  into  my 
father's  house,  and  I  remembered  no  more 
tlian  his  temporary  adieu.  But  afterwards, 
all  went  on  slowly  and  surely.  My  father 
and  Richard  became  good  friends,  and  the 
old  gentleman  acquired  such  influence  over 
him,  that  Leroy's  "  pleasure  trips"  soon  be- 
came rare,  and  finally  ceased  altogether.  At 
the  last  run,  he  brought  a  foreign  wife  over 
with  him,  and  nothing  besides — a  Dutch 
woman  of  great  beauty  and  accomplish- 
ments ;  who,  as  he  said,  was  as  fitting 
a  helpmate  for  him,  as  Charlotte,  he  ac- 
knowledged, was  for  me.  He  also  took 
a  neighboring  parish  church  and  its  appur- 
tenances into  favor,  and  settled  down  as  a 
landsman  within  a  few  miles  of  us.  And, 
if  our  families  continue  to  go  on  in  the 
friendly  way  they  have  done  for  the  last  few 
years,  it  seems  likely  that  a  Richard  may 
conduct  a  Charlotte,  to  enter  their  namei 
together  in  a  favorite  register  book. 


THE    COLONEL'S    STORY. 


Until  I  was  fifteen  I  lived  at  home  with 
my  widowed  mother  and  two  sisters.  My 
mother  was  the  widow  of  an  officer,  who  was 
killed  in  one  of  the  battles  with  Ilyder  Ali, 
and  enjoyed  a  pension  from  the  Indian  Gov- 
ernment. I  was  the  youngest ;  and  soon 
after  my  fifteenth  birthday  she  died  sud- 
denly. My  sisters  went  to  India  on  the  in- 
vitation of  a  distant  relation  of  my  mother  ; 
and  I  was  sent  to  school,  where  I  was  very 
unhappy.  You  will,  therefore,  easily  im- 
agine with  what  pleasure  I  received  a  visit 
from  a  handsome  jovial  old  gentleman,  who 
told  me  that  he  was  my  father's  elder  half- 
brother  ;  that  they  had  been  separated  by  a 
quarrel  early  in  life,  but  that  now,  being  a 
^•idower  and  childless,  he  had  found  me  out, 
ind  determined  to  adopt  me. 

The  truth  was,  the  old  man  loved  com. 
pany  ;  and  that  as  his  chief  income — a  large 
one — was  derived  from  a  mine,  near  which 
he  lived,  in  a  very  remote  part  of  the  coun- 
try, he  was  well  pleased  to  have  a  young 
.iompanion  who  looked  like  a  gentleman,  and 
could  be  useful  as  carver,  cellar-keeper,  and 
secretary. 

Installed  in  his  house,  a  room  was  assigned 
to  me,  and  I  had  a  servant,  and  a  couple  of 
excellent  horses.  He  made  me  understand 
that  I  need  give  myself  no  further  anxiety 
on  the  subject  of  my  future,  that  I  might 
abandon  the  idea  of  proceeding  to  India  in 
the  Company's  service,  where  a  cadetship 
had  been  secured  to  me  ;  and  that  so  long  as 
I  conformed  to  his  ways,  it  was  no  matter 
whether  I  studied  or  not ;  in  fact,  it  was  no 
natter  what  I  did. 

Some  time  after  becoming  thus  settled  at 
Beechgrove  Hall,  my  uncle's  attacks  of  gout, 
in  spite  of  the  generous  living  he  adopted  as 
%  precaution,  became  so  severe,  that  he  was 
inaMe  to  stir  out  except  in  a  wheeled  chair, 
^nd  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  was  lifted 
Ofcasionally  into  his  carriage.  The  conse- 
ijuence  was,  that  to  me  all  his  business 
naturally  fell,  and  although  he  grumbled  at 
losing  my  society  and  attention,  he  was 
obliged  to  send  me  to  London  to  watch  the 
progress  of  a  canal  bill,  in  which  he  was 
deeply  interested.  It  was  my  first  visit  to 
London.  I  was  well  provided  with  intro- 
ductions and  with  funds.  My  uncle's  busi- 
ness occupied  me  in  the  morning,  for  I 
dreaded  his  displeasure  too  much  to  neglect 
it;  but  in  the  evenings  I  plunged  into  every 
amusement,  with  all  the  keen  zest  of  novelty 
and  youth. 


I  cannot  say  that  up  to  that  period  I  had 
never  been  in  love.  My  uncle  had  twice 
seriously  warned  me  that  if  I  made  a  fool  of 
myself  for  anything  less  than  a  large  for- 
tune, he  would  never  forgive  me.  "  If,  Sir," 
he  said,  when,  on  the  second  occasion,  he 
saw  me  blush  and  tremble — for  I  was  too 
proud  and  too  self-willed  to  bear  patiently 
such  control — "If,  Sir,  you  like  to  make  an 
ass  of  yourself  for  a  pretty  face,  like  Miss 
Willington,  with  her  three  brothers  and  five 
sisters,  half  of  whom  you'd  have  to  keep, 
you  may  do  it  with  your  own  money  ;  you 
shall  not  do  it  with  mine." 

I  told  my  only  confidant,  Dr.  Creeleigh,  of 
this ;  he  answered  me,  "  You  have  only 
about  a  hundred  and  twenty  a  year  of  your 
own  from  the  estate  ynu  inherited  from  your 
father,  and  you  are  living  with  your  horses 
and  dogs  at  the  rate  of  five  hundred  a  year. 
How  would  you  like  to  see  your  wife  and 
children  dressed  and  housed  like  the  curate 
— poor  Mr.  Serge.  Your  uncle  can't  live 
for  ever."  The  argument  was  enough  for 
me,  who  had  only  found  Clara  Willington 
the  best  partner  in  a  country  dance.  My 
time  was  not  come. 

My  lodgings  in  London  wore  in  a  large, 
old-fashioned  house  in  Westminster — for- 
merly the  residence  of  a  nobleman — which 
was  a  perfect  caravanserai,  in  the  number 
and  variety  of  its  inmates.  The  best  rooms 
were  let  to  Members  of  Parliament  and  per- 
sons like  myself;  but,  in  the  upper  floor, 
many  persons  of  humbler  means  but  genteel 
pretensions  had  rooms.  Here,  I  frequently 
met  on  the  stairs,  carrying  a  roll  of  music, 
a  tall,  elegant  female  figure,  dressed  in  black, 
and  closely  veiled  ;  sometimes,  when  I  had 
to  step  on  one  side,  a  slight  bow  was  ex- 
changed, but  for  several  weeks  that  was  all. 
At  length  my  curiosity  was  piqued ;  the 
neat  ankles,  a  small  white  hand,  a  lark  curl 
peeping  out  of  the  veil,  made  me  anxious  to 
know  more. 

Enquiries  discreetly  applied  to  Mrs.  Gough, 
the  housekeeper,  told  me  enough  to  make  me 
wish  to  know  still  more.  Her  name  was 
Laura  Delacourt ;  not  more  than  twenty  or 
twenty-two  years  of  ago  ;  she  had  lived  four 
years  previously  with  her  husband  in  the 
best  apartments  in  the  house  in  great  luxury 
for  one  winter.  Mr.  Delacourt  was  a  French- 
man and  a  gambler  ;  very  handsome,  and 
very  dissipated  ;  it  seemed  as  if  it  was  her 
fortune  they  were  spending.  Mrs.  Gough 
said  it  was  enough  to  make  one's  heart  break 

(73) 


74 


DICKENS'   NEW  STORIES. 


to  see  that  young  pretty  creature  sittinji;  up 
in  her  ball  dress  when  her  husband  had  sent 
her  home  alone,  and  remained  to  play  until 
daylight.  They  went  away,  and  nothing 
more  was  heard  of  them  until  just  before 
my  arrival.  About  that  time  Ma<lame  Dela- 
court  became  very  humble,  had  taken  a 
room  on  the  third  floor :  had  only  men- 
tioned her  husband  to  say  he  was  dead,  and 
now  apparently  lived  by  giving  music  les- 
sons. 

It  would  be  too  long  a  story  to  tell  how, 
by  making  the  old  housekeeper  my  ambas- 
sador, by  anonymous  presents  of  fruit  and 
game,  by  offering  to  take  music  lessons,  and 
by  professing  to  require  large  quantities  of 
music  copied,  I  made  first  the  acquaintance, 
and  then  became  the  intimate  friend  of 
Madame  Delacourt.  While  keeping  me  at 
a  freezing  distance,  and  insisting  on  always 
having  present  at  our  interviews  a  half-ser- 
vant, half-companion,  of  that  indescribable 
age,  figure,  and  appearance  that  is  only 
grown  in  France,  she  step  by  step  confided 
to  me  her  history.  An  English  girl,  born 
in  France,  the  daughter  of  a  war  prisoner 
at  Verdun,  married  to  the  very  handsome 
Monsieur  Delacourt,  at  sixteen,  by  a  mother 
who  was  herself  anxious  to  make  a  second 
marriage.  In  twelve  months,  Monsieur  De- 
lacourt had  expended  her  small  fortune,  and 
deserted  her  for  an  opera  dancer  of  twice 
her  age. 

All  this,  told  with  a  charming  accent  in 
melancholy  tones — she  looking  on  me  sadly 
with  a  fiice  which  for  expression,  I  have 
never  seen  equalled — produced  an  impres- 
sion which  those  only  can  understand  who 
have  been  themselves  young  and  in  love. 

For  weeks  this  went  on,  without  one  sign 
of  encouragement  on  her  part,  except  that 
she  allowed  me  to  sit  with  her  in  the  even- 
ings, while  her  honne  faddled  at  some  inter- 
minable work,  and  she  sang — 0 !  how  di- 
vinely- !  She  would  receive  no  presents  direct- 
ly from  me ;  but  I  sent  them  anonymously, 
end  dresses  and  furniture  and  costly  trifles 
and  books  reached  her  daily.  I  spoke  at  last ; 
and  then  she  stopped  me  with  a  cold  faint 
smile,  saying,  "  Cease  !  I  must  not  listen  to 
you."  She  pleaded  her  too  recent  widow- 
hood, but  I  persevered  ;  and,  after  a  time, 
conquered. 

She  knew  my  small  fortune  and  large  ex- 
pectations ;  she  knew  that  our  marriage  must 
be  a  secret ;  but  she  was  willing  to  live  any- 
where, and  was  well  content  to  quit  a  life  in 
which  she  had  known  so  much  trouble. 

Before  the  session  ended  we  were  married 
in  an  obscure  church  in  the  City,  with  no  one 
present  but  the  clerk  and  the  pew-opener. 
We  spent  a  few  following  days  at  a  small 
inn,  in  a  fishing  village.  Then  I  had  to 
leave  town  and  carry  out  the  plan  I  had 
proposed.  I  left  my  wife  in  lodgings,  under 
au  assumed  name,  at  a  town  within  forty 


miles  of  our  residence.  I  had  some  tlra« 
previously  persuaded  my  uncle  to  lot  me 
take  a  lease  from  Lord  Mardall  of  some 
untouched  mineral  ground,  on  very  favorable 
terms,  in  a  wild,  thinly-peopled  district 
which  was  only  visited  by  the  gentry  for 
field  sports.  This  afforded  me  an  excuse 
for  being  away  from  home  one  or  two  days 
every  week. 

Not  far  from  the  mines  was  the  remains 
of  a  forest,  and  coverts  abounding  in  game. 
In  a  little  sloping  dell,  one  of  Lord  Mardall's 
ancestors  had  built  a  small  shooting-lodge, 
and  one  of  the  keepers  in  charge  had  planted 
there  fruit  trees  and  ornamental  trees,  for 
which  he  had  a  taste,  being  the  son  of  a 
gardener.  On  this  wild  nest,  miles  away 
from  any  other  residence,  I  had  fixed  my 
mind.  It  was  half  in  ruins,  and  there  was 
no  difficulty  in  obtaining  possession.  With 
money  and  workmen  at  my  command,  very 
soon  a  garden  smiled,  and  a  fountain  bub- 
bled at  Orchard  Spring  ;  roses  and  climbing 
plants  covered  the  steep  hill  side,  and  the 
small  stone  cottage  was  made,  at  a  slight 
expense,  a  wonder  of  comfort.  The  cage 
being  ready  I  brought  my  bird  there.  The 
first  months  were  all  joy,  all  happiness. 
My  uncle  only  complained  that  I  had  lost 
my  jovial  spirits. 

I  counted  every  day  until  the  day  when  I 
could  mount  my  horse  and  set  off  for  the 
new  mines.  Five  and  twenty  miles  to  ride 
over  a  rough  mountain  road  ;  two  fords  to 
cross,  often  swelled  by  winter  rains ;  but 
day  or  night,  moonlight  or  dark.  I  dashed 
along,  pressing  too  often  my  willing  horse 
with  loose  rein  up  and  down  steep  hills ;  all 
lost  in  love  and  anxious  thought  I  rode, 
until  in  the  distance  the  plashing  sound  of 
the  mountain  torrent  rolling  over  our  gar- 
den cascade,  told  me  I  was  near  my  darlings 

My  horse's  footsteps  were  heard,  and  be- 
fore I  had  passed  the  avenue  the  door  flew 
open,  the  bright  fire  blazed  out.  and  Laura 
came  forward  to  receive  me  in  her  arms. 

I  had  begged  her  to  get  everything  she 
might  require  from  London,  and  have  it 
sent,  to  avoid  all  suspicion,  to  the  nearest 
port,  and  then  brought  by  her  own  servant, 
a  country  clown,  with  a  horse  and  cart ;  and 
I  had  given  her  a  cheque  book,  signed  in 
blank.  After  a  time  I  saw  signs  of  extravar 
gance  ;  in  furniture,  in  dress,  but  especially 
in  jewels.  I  remonstrated  gently,  and  was 
met  first  with  tears,  then  sullen  fits.  I 
learned  that  Laura  had  a  temper  for  which 
I  was  quite  unprepared. 

The  ice  was  ])roken  ;  no  more  pleasant 
holidays  at  Orchard  Spring.  The  girl,  onco 
so  humble,  now  assumed  a  haughty,  jealous 
air  ;  every  word  was  a  cause  of  offence  ;  I 
never  came  when  wanted,  or  stayed  as  long 
as  I  was  required:  half  my  time  was  spent 
in  scenes  of  reproach,  of  tears,  hysterics,  lar 
mentations  ;  peace  was  only  to  be  purchased 


NINE   NEW   STORIES  BI    THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


75 


by  some  costly  present.  Our  maid  servant, 
a  simple  country  {^irl,  stood  amazed  ;  the 
meek  angel  had  become  a  tigress.  I  loved 
her  still,  but  feared  her ;  yet  even  love  began 
to  fail  before  so  much  violence.  A  dread- 
ful idea  began  slowly  to  intrude  itself  into 
my  mind.  Was  she  tired  of  me?  Was  the 
story  of  her  life  true  ?  Had  she  ever  loved 
me?  The  next  time  that  I  made  up  my 
lianker's  book,  I  was  shocked  to  find  that, 
in  the  short  time  since  my  last  remonstrance, 
Laura  had  drawn  a  large  sum  of  money.  I 
list  no  time  in  galloping  to  Orchard  vSpring. 
She  was  absent.  Where  was  she?  No  one 
knew.  Severe  cross-examination  brought 
out  that  she  had  been  away  two  days ;  I 
Lad  not  been  expected  that  week.  I  thought 
I  should  have  choked. 

In  the  midst  I  heard  the  steps  of  her 
horse.  She  came  in  and  confronted  me. 
Looking  most  beautiful  and  most  demonia- 
cal, she  defied  me  ;  she  threat-ened  to  expose 
me  to  my  uncle ;  declared  she  had  never 
lived  me,  but  had  taken  me  for  a  home. 
At  length  her  frenzy  rose  to  such  a  height, 
that  she  struck  me.  Then  all  the  violent 
pent-up  rage  of  my  heart  broke  out.  I 
know  not  what  passed,  until  I  found  myself 
galloping  furiously  across  the  mountain 
ridge  that  divided  the  county.  Obliged  to 
slacken  my  pace  in  passing  through  a  ford, 
some  one  spoke  to  me;  how  I  answered  I 
know  not.  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  a  mad 
answer. 

I  listened  to  nothing,  and  pressed  on  my 
weary  steed  until  just  before  reaching  the 
moorland,  when,  descending  into  a  water- 
curse,  he  fell  on  his  head,  throwing  me 
over  with  such  force,  that  for  some  time  I 
lay  senseless.  I  came  to  mj-self  to  find  my 
poor  horse  standing  over  me  dead  lame.  I 
ipd  him  on  to  the  inn  door,  and  knocked.  It 
was  midnight,  and  I  was  readily  admitted. 
The  landlord,  when  he  saw  me,  started  back 
with  an  exclamation  of  horror.  My  face 
and  shirt  were  covered  with  blood. 

Worn-out,  bruised,  and  exhausted  by  fa- 
tigue and  passion,  I  slept.  I  was  rudely 
awakened,  and  found  myself  in  tlie  custody 
of  two  constables.  Two  mounted  game- 
keepers, and  Lord  Mardell  had  followed  and 
traced  me  to  the  inn. 

'•On  what  charge?"  I  asked  amazed. 

"  For  murder,"  said  Lord  Mardall. 

"  The  lady  at  Orchard  Spring,"  said  one 
»)f  the  gamekeepers. 

I  was  examined  before  magistrates ;  but 
Was  unable  to  give  any  coherent  answers  ; 
and  was  committed  to  the  county  jail.  My 
uncle  remitted  me  a  sum  of  money  for  my 
defence,  and  desired  never  to  see  me  again. 

I  will  give  you  the  description  of  my  trial 
from  the  newspapers. 

The  prisoner  had  clandestinely  married  a 
lady  of  great  beauty  and  unknown  family, 
probably  in  station   beneath   himself,  and 


had  placed  her  under  an  assumed  name  in 
a  lonely  cottage.  After  a  season  of  affection, 
quarrels  had  broken  out,  which,  as  would  be 
proved  by  the  servant,  had  constantly  in 
creased  in  violence.  On  the  last  occasion 
when  the  unfortunate  victim  was  seen  alive 
by  her  servant,  a  quarrel  of  a  most  fearful 
description  had  commenced.  It  was  some- 
thing about  money.  The  servant  had  been 
so  much  alarmed,  that  she  had  left  the  cot- 
tage and  gone  down  to  her  mother's,  a  mile 
away  over  the  hill,  where  she  had  previously 
been  ordered  to  go  to  obtain  some  poultry. 
From  something  that  passed,  her  mother 
would  not  allow  her  to  return.  It  would 
then  be  proved  that  Lord  Mardall,  attracted 
by  the  howling  of  a  dog,  when  out  shooting 
the  next  morning,  had  entered  the  open 
door  of  the  cottage,  and  had  there  found  the 
prisoner's  wife  dead,  with  a  severe  fracture 
of  the  skull.  The  prisoner  had  been  pur- 
sued, from  some  information  as  to  his  usual 
course,  and  found  asleep  in  the  chimney- 
corner  of  the  Moor  Iim,  his  clothes  and  shirt 
deeply  stained  with  blood.  It  could  1)6 
proved  that  he  had  washed  his  face  and 
hands  immediately  on  entering,  and  attri 
buted  the  blood  to  the  fall  from  his  horse. 
But  on  examination  no  cuts  were  found  on 
his  person  sufficient  to  cause  such  an  effu- 
sion of  blood. 

But  when  Lord  Mardall  was  called,  he 
deposed  to  two  facts  which  produced  a  great 
impression  in  fixvor  of  the  prisoner.  lie  saw 
the  body  at  five  o'clock,  and  it  was  scarcely 
cold.  He  had  found  in  one  of  the  victim's 
hands  a  lock  of  hair,  which  she  had  evi- 
dently torn  from  her  assailant  in  her  strus- 
gles  ;  which  had  been  desperate.  He  had 
sealed  it  up,  and  never  let  it  out  of  his  pos- 
session. The  nails  of  her  other  hand  were 
broken,  and  were  marked  with  blood.  She 
had  no  rings  on  either  of  her  hands,  thouirh 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  wearing  a  gre.it 
number;  there  were  marks  of  rings,  and  c>f 
one  which  seemed  to  have  Iioimi  violentlv 
torn  off.  A  packet  of  plate  had  been  found 
on  the  kitchen  table,  a  knife,  and  a  loaf 
marked  with  blood. 

Counsel  wore  not  allowed  to  speak  for  the 
defence  in  those  days,  and  the  prisoner  was 
not  in  a  condition  to  speak  on  the  evidence 
against  him.  Witnesses  for  the  defeni-e 
were  called,  who  proved  that  the  lady  wore 
frequently  certain  peculiar  bracelets.  The 
prisoner,  who  seemed  stupified  by  his  emo- 
tions, declined  to  say  anything;  but  bin 
counsel  asked  the  maid-servant,  and  also  the 
fixrmer  who  occasionally  si>Id  meat  to  Or- 
chard Spring,  if  they  should  know  the  rings 
and  bracelets  if  they  saw  them. 

He  then  called  Richard  Perkins,  jailor  of 
the  county  prison,  and  asked  him  these 
questions : 

"  Had  you  any  prisoner  committed  about 
the  same  time  as  the  prisoner  at  the  bar?" 


76 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


"  I  liad  a  man  called  Ilay-makinj];  Dick, 
for  horse-stoalint;,  tlie  day  after  the  dis- 
covery of  the  imiider." 

"  Was  it  a  valuable  horse?" 

"No:  it  was  a  mare,  blind  of  one  eye, 
very  old,  and  witli  a  large  fen  spavin  I 
knew  her  well ;  used  to  drive  her  in  the  f^oal 
cart ;  but  when  warm,  she  was  faster  than 
anything  about." 

"  Do  you  suppose  Ilay-making  Dick  took 
the  mare  to  sell  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  She  would  not  fetch  a 
crown  except  to  those  that  knew  her.  No 
doul)t  he  had  been  up  to  some  mischief,  and 
wanted  to  get  out  of  the  county,  only  luckily 
he  rode  against  the  blacksmith  that  owned 
the  mare  and  was  taken." 

The  judge  thougiit  these  questions  irrele- 
vant ;  but,  after  some  conversation,  permit- 
ted tlie  examination  to  go  on. 

"  Has  Perkins  searched  the  prisoner,  and 
has  he  found  anything  of  value  ?" 

The  gaoler  produced  two  bracelets,  four 
rings — one  a  diamond  hoop,  one  a  seal  ring 
— and  a  canvass  wheat-bag  containing  gold, 
with  several  French  coins.  On  one  of  the 
bracelets  was  engraved  "  Charles  to  Laura," 
and  a  date.  In  answer  to  another  question, 
he  had  found  several  severe  scratches  on 
Dick's  face,  made  apparently  by  nails,  which 
he  declared  had  been  done  in  an  up  and 
down  tight  at  Broad-green  Fair.  Also  a 
severe  raw  scar  on  his  left  temple,  as  if  hair 
had  been  pulled  out. 

At  this  stage  of  the  proceedings,  by  order 
of  the  judge,  the  prisoner  Dick  was  brought 
up.     The  lock  of  hair  taken  by  Lord  Mar- 


dall  from  the  murdered  lady's  hand  wag 
compared  with  Dick's  head.  It  matched 
exactly,  although  Dick's  hair  had  been  cut 
short  and  washed.  Then  Mr.  Monley  gave 
evidence,  that  when  he  met  the  prisoner,  on 
the  niglit  of  the  murder,  immediately  after 
lie  had  left  the  cottage,  there  certainly  was 
no  blood  on  his  face  or  dress.  The  landlord 
of  the  Moon  Inn  was  called,  and  deposed, 
that  he  found  the  corn,  placed  before  the 
prisoner's  horse,  uneaten  and  much  stained 
with  blood.  On  examining  the  horse's 
tongue,  he  saw  that  it  had  been  half-bitten 
off  in  the  f:\ll  the  animal  had  suffered.  No 
doubt  the  blood  had  dripped  over  the  young 
Sijuire. 

It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night  shining 
in  the  prisoner's  face. 

The  judge  summed  up  for  an  acquittal, 
and  the  jury  gave  a  verdict  of  Not  Guilty, 
without  leaving  the  box. 

A  week  after,  Ilay-making  Dick  made  an 
attempt  to  break  out  of  prison,  in  which  he 
knocked  out  tfie  brains  of  a  turnkey  with 
his  irons.  lie  was  tried  and  condemned  fur 
tins,  and  when  hope  of  escape  was  gone,  he 
called  a  fixvorite  turnkey  to  him  and  said, 
"  Bill  I  killed  the  Frenchwoman.  I  knew  she 
always  had  plenty  of  money  and  jewels,  and 
I  watched  my  opportunity  to  get  'em." 

Thus  ends  the  newspaper  reports.  My 
uncle  died  of  gout  in  his  stomach  on  the  "-^ 
day  of  the  trial,  and  died  almost  insolvent. 
By  Lord  Mardall's  influence  I  received  an 
appointment  from  the  East  India  Company, 
and  afterwards  a  commission  in  their  irre 
gular  service. 


■*<^^A^^•^1*>*/^'v~~. 


THE    SCHOLAR'S    STORY. 


I  PERCETVE  a  general  fear  on  the  part  of 
this  pleasant  company,  that  I  am  going  to 
burst  into  black-letter,  and  beguile  the  time 
by  being  as  dry  as  ashes.  No,  there  is  no 
such  fear,  you  can  assure  me  ?  I  am  glad 
to  hear  it;  but  I  thought  there  was. 

At  any  rate,  both  to  relieve  your  minds 
and  to  place  myself  beyond  suspicion,  I  will 
Bay  at  once  that  my  story  is  a  ballad.  It 
was  taken  down,  as  I  am  going  to  repeat  it, 
seventy-one  years  ago,  by  the  mother  of  the 
person  who  communicated  it  to  M.  Ville- 
marque  when  he  was  making  his  collection 
of  Breton  Ballads.  It  is  slightly  confirmed 
by  the  chronicles  and  Ecclesiastical  Acts  of 
the  time  ;  but  no  more  of  them  or  you  really 
will  suspect  me.  It  runs,  according  to  my 
version,  thus. 


Sole  child  of  her  house,  a  lovely  maid. 
In  the  lordly  halls  of  Rohan  played. 

Played  till  thirteen,  when  her  sire  was  bent 
To  see  her  wed ;  and  she  gave  consent. 

And  many  a  lord  of  high  degree 
Came  suing  her  chosen  knight  to  be; 

But  amongst  them  all  there  pleased  her  none 
Save  the  noble  Count  Mathieu  alone ; 

Lord  of  the  Castle  of  Tongoli, 
A  princely  knight  of  Italy. 

To  him  so  courteous,  true  and  brave, 
Her  heart  the  maiden  freely  gave. 

Three  years  since  the  day  they  first  were  wed 
In  peace  and  in  bliss  away  had  sped, 


NINE  NEW   STORIES  BY  THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


77 


When  tidings  came  on  the  winds?  abroad, 
That  all  were  to  take  the  cross  of  God. 

Then  spake  the  Count,  like  a  nohle  knight: 
"  Aye  first  in  birth  should  be  first  in  fight ! 

"  And  since  to  this  Paynini  war  I  must, 
Dear  cousin,  I  leave  thee  here  in  trust. 

"My  wife  and  my  child  I  leave  m  ihce ; 
Guard  them,  good  clerk,  as  thy  life  for  me  !" 

Early  next  morn,  from  his  castle  gate, 

A.S  rode  forth  the  knight  in  bannered  state, 

Down  the  marble  steps,  all  full  of  fears, 
The  lady  hied  her  with  moans  and  tears — 

The  loving,  sweet  lady,  sobbing  wild — 
And  laid  on  her  breast  her  baby  child. 

She  ran  to  her  lord  with  breathless  speed, 
As  backward  he  reigned  his  fiery  steed  ; 

She  caught  and  she  clasped  him  round  the  knee  ; 
She  wept  and  she  prayed  him  piteously  : 

"  Oh  stay  with  me,  stay  !  my  lord,  my  love  ! 
Go  not,  I  beg,  by  the  saints  above ; 

"  Leave  me  not  here  alone,  I  pray. 
To  weep  on  your  babv's  face  alway  !" 

The  knight  was  touched  with  ner  sad  despair. 
And  fondly  gazed  on  her  face  so  fair ; 

And  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  stooping  low. 
Raised  her  up  straight  to  his  saddle-bow ; 

And  held  her  pressed  to  his  bosom  then, 
And  kissed  her  o'er  and  o'er  agen. 

"  Come,  dry  these  tears,  my  little  Joan; 
A  single  year  will  soon  be  flown  !" 

His  baby  dear  in  his  arms  he  took. 

And  looked  on  him  with  a  proud,  fond  look : 

"  My  boy,  when  thou'rt  a  man,"  said  he. 
Wilt  ride  to  the  wars  along  with  me  1" 

Then  away  he  spurred  across  the  plain, 
And  old  and  young  they  wept  amain  : 

Both  rich  and  poor,  wept  every  one  ; 
But  that  same  clerk — ah  !  he  wept  none. 


The  treacherous  clerk  one  morning  tide. 
With  artful  speeches  the  lady  plied  : 

"  Lo !  ended  now  is  that  single  year. 
And  ended  too  is  the  war  I  hear ; 

"  But  yet,  thy  lord  to  return  to  thee. 
Would  seem  in  no  tiasie  ai  a-"  U>  l^e. 

"  Now,  ask  of  your  heart,  my  lady  dear. 

Is  there  no  other  might  please  it  here  "^ 

■'  Xeed  wives  still  keep  themselves  unwed, 

E'en  though  their  husbands  should  not  be  dead  V 

"  Silence  !  thou  wretched  clerk  !"  cried  she, 

"  Thy  heart  is  filled  full  of  sin,  I  see. 

"  When  my  lord  returns,  if  I  whisper  him, 

Thou  know'st  he'll  tear  thee  limb  from  limb  !" 

As  soon  as  the  clerk  thus  answered  she 

He  stole  to  the  kennel  secretly. 


He  called  to  the  hound  so  swift  and  true, 
The  hound  that  his  lord  loved  best,  he  knew 

It  came  to  his  call — leapt  up  in  play  ; 
One  gash  in  the  throat,  and  dead  it  lay. 

As  trickled  the  blood  from  out  the  throat. 
He  dipped  in  that  red  ink  and  wrote : 

A  letter  he  wrote  with  a  liar's  heed, 

And  sent  it  straight  to  the  camp  with  speed. 

And  these  were  the  words  the  letter  bore : 
"  Dear  lord  your  wife  she  is  fretting  sore, 

"  Fretting  and  grieving,  your  wife  so  dear. 
For  a  sad  mischance  befallen  here. 

"  Chasing  the  doe  on  the  mountain-side, 
Thy  beautiful  greyhound  burst  and  died." 

The  Count  so  guileless  then  answer  made, 
And  thus  to  his  faithless  cousin  said  : 

"  Now  bid  my  own  little  wife,  I  pray. 
To  fret  not  for  this  mischance  one  day. 

"  My  hound  is  dead — well  !  money  have  1 
Another,  when  I  come  back,  to  buy- 

"  Yet  she'd  better  not  hunt  agen. 
For  hunters  are  oft  but  wildish  men." 


The  miscreant  clerk  once  more  he  came. 

As  she  wept  in  her  bower,  to  the  peerless  dame 

"  O  lady,  with  weeping  night  and  day. 
Your  beauty  is  fading  fast  away." 

"  And  what  care  I  though  it  fading  be. 
When  my  own  dear  lord  comes  not  to  me  !" 

"  Thy  own  dear  lord  has.  I  fancy,  wed 
Another  ere  this,  or  else  he's  dead. 

"  The  Moorish  maidens  though  dark  are  fair 
And  gold  in  plenty  have  got  to  spare  ; 

"  The  Moorish  chiefs  on  the  battle  plain 
Thousands  as  valiant  as  he  have  slain 

«  If  he's  wed  another — Oh  curse,  not  fret; 
Or,  if  he's  dead — why  straight  forget !" 

"If  he's  wed  another  I'll  die,"  she  said ; 
"  And  I'll  die  likewise,  if  he  be  dead  !" 

"  In  case  one  chances  to  lose  the  key. 
No  need  for  burning  the  box,  I  see. 

"  Twere  wiser,  if  I  might  speak  my  mmd, 
A  new  and  a  better  key  to  find." 

"  Now  hold,  thou  wretched  clerk,  thy  tongue, 
'Tis  foul  with  lewdness — more  rotten  than  dung." 

As  soon  as  the  clerk  thus  answered  she. 
He  stole  to  the  stable  secretly. 
He  looked  at  his  lord's  own  favorite  steed. 
Unmatched  for  beauty,  for  strength  and  speed  ; 
White  as  an  egg,  and  more  smooth  to  touch 
Light  as  a  bird,  and  for  fire  none  such  ; 
On  nought  had  she  fed  since  she  was  born. 
Save  fine  chopped  heath  and  the  best  of  corru 
Awhile  the  bonny  white  mare  he  eyed. 
Then  struck  his  dirk  in  her  velvet  side  ; 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES. 


And  when  the  bonny  white  mare  lay  tlead, 
Again  to  the  Count  he  wrote  and  said  : 

"  Of  a  fresh  mischance  I  now  send  word, 
But  let  it  not  vex  thee  much,  dear  lord  ; 

•'  Hasting  back  from  a  revel  last  night, 
My  lady  rode  on  thy  favorite  white — 

"So  hotly  rode,  it  stumbled  and  fell. 
And  broke  both  legs,  as  I  grieve  to  tell." 

The  Count  Uicn  answered,  "  Ah  !  woe  is  me 
My  bonny  white  marc  no  more  to  see  1 

"  My  mare  she  has  killed;  my  hound  killed  too  ; 
Good  cousin,  now  give  her  counsel  true. 

«  Yet  scold  her  not  either ;  but  say  from  me, 
To  no  more  revels  at  night  must  she. 

"  Not  horses'  legs  alone,  I  fear. 

But  wifely  vows  may  be  broken  there  !" 


The  clerk  a  few  days  let  pass  and  then 
Back  to  the  charge  returned  agen. 

"  Lady,  now  yield,  or  you  die  !"  said  he  : 
«  Choose  which  you  will — choose  speedily  !" 

"  Ten  thousand  deaths  would  I  rather  die. 
Than  shame  upon  me  my  God  should  cry !" 

The  clerk  when  he  saw  he  nought  might  gain, 
No  more  could  his  smothered  wrath  contain  ; 

So  soon  as  those  words  had  left  her  tongue. 
His  dagger  right  at  her  head  he  flung. 

But  swift  her  white  angel,  hovering  nigh, 
Turned  it  aside  as  it  flashed  her  by. 

The  lady  straight  to  her  chamber  flew, 
And  bolt  and  bar  behind  her  drew. 

The  clerk  his  dagger  snatched  up  and  shook, 
And  grinned  with  angry  ban-dog's  look. 

Down  the  broad  stairs  in  his  rage  came  he, 
Two  steps  at  a  time,  two  steps  and  three. 

Then  on  to  the  nurse's  room  he  crept. 
Where  softly  the  winsome  baby  slept — 

Softly,  and  sweetly,  and  all  alone  ; 

One  arm  from  the  silken  cradle  thrown — 

One  little  round  arm  just  o'er  it  laid, 
Folded  the  other  beneath  his  head ; 

His  little  white  breast ah  !  hush  ?  be  still ! 

Poor  mother,  go  now  and  weep  your  fill ! 

Away  to  his  room  the  clerk  then  sped. 
And  wrote  a  letter  in  black  and  red  ; 

In  haste,  post  haste,  to  the  Count  wrote  he  ; 
"  There  be  need,  dear  lord,  sore  need  of  thee  ! 

"  Oh  speed  now,  speed  to  thy  castle  back. 
For  all  runs  riot,  and  runs  to  wrack. 

«  Thy  hound  is  killed,  and  thy  mare  is  killed, 
But  not  for  these  with  grief  I'm  filled, 

«  Nor  is  it  for  these  that  thou  wilt  care ; 
Thy  darling  is  dead  !  thy  son,  thy  heir  ! 


"  The  sow  she  seized  and  devoured  him  all, 
While  thy  wife  was  dancing  at  the  ball ; 

"  Dancing  there  with  the  miller  gay. 
Her  young  gallant,  as  the  people  say." 


That  letter  came  to  the  valiant  knight. 
Hastening  home  from  the  Paynim  fight ; 

With  trumpet  sound,  from  the  Eastern  straa.r 
Hastening  home  to  his  own  dear  land. 

So  soon  as  he  read  the  missive  through, 
Fearful  to  see  his  anger  grew. 

The  scroll  in  his  mailed  hand  be  took. 
And  crumpled  it  up  with  furious  look ; 

To  bits  with  his  teeth  he  tore  the  sheet, 
And  spat  them  out  at  his  horse's  feet. 

"  Now  quick  to  Brittany,  quick,  my  men. 
The  homes  that  you  love  to  see  again  ! 

"Thou  loitering  squire  !  ride  yet  more  qiiick. 
Or  my  lance  shall  teach  thee  how  to  prick  !" 

But  when  he  stood  at  his  castle  gate, 
Three  lordly  blows  he  struck  it  straight ; 

Three  angry  blows  he  struck  thereon, 
Which  made  them  tremble  every  one. 

The  clerk  he  heard,  and  down  he  hied, 
And  opened  at  once  the  portal  wide, 

"  Oh  cursed  cousin,  that  this  should  be  ! 
Did  I  not  trust  my  wife  to  thee  V 

His  spear  down  the  traitor's  throat  he  drove, 
Till  out  at  his  back  the  red  point  clove. 

Then  up  he  rushed  to  the  bridal  bower. 
Where  drooped  his  lady  like  some  pale  flowei; 

And  ere  she  could  speak  a  single  word, 
She  fell  at  his  feet  beneath  his  sword. 


"  O  holy  priest !  now  tell  to  me 
What  didst  thou  up  at  the  castle  see  V 

"  I  saw  a  grief  and  a  terror  more 
Than  ever  I  saw  on  earth  before. 

"  I  saw  a  martyr  give  up  her  breath. 
And  her  slayer  sorrowing  e'en  to  death." 

"  O  holy  priest !  now  tell  to  me 

What  didst  thou  down  at  the  crossway  see  ^" 

"  I  saw  a  corpse  that  all  mangled  lay. 
And  the  dogs  and  ravens  made  their  prev  " 

"  O  holy  priest !  now  tell  to  me 

What  didst  thou  next  in  the  churchyard  se«^ '" 

"  By  a  new-made  grave,  in  soft  moonlight, 
I  saw  a  fair  lady  clothed  in  white  ; 

"  Nursing  a  little  child  on  her  knee — 
A  dark  red  wound  on  his  breast  had  he. 

"  A  noble  hound  lay  couched  at  her  right, 
A  steed  at  her  left  of  bonniest  white ; 


NINE  NEW  STORIES  BY  THE  CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


79 


•*  The  first  a  gash  in  his  throat  had  wide, 
And  this  as  deep  a  stab  in  tiis  side. 

"  They  raised  their  heads  to  the  lady's  knee, 
And  they  licked  their  soft  hands  tenderly, 

'  She  gently  patted  their  necks,  the  while 
Suiiiing,  though  stilly,  a  fair  sweet  smile. 


"  The  child,  as  it  fain  its  love  would  speak, 
Caressed  and  fondled  its  mother's  cheek, 

"  But  down  went  the  moon  then  silently. 
And  my  eyes  no  more  their  forms  could  sec  ; 

«  But  I  heard  a  bird  from  out  the  skies 
Warbling  a  song  of  Paradise  !" 


>MVS/\*#1'^<**V^''~' 


NOBODY'S    STORY. 


He  lived  on  the  bank  of  a  mighty  river, 
broad  and  deep,  which  was  always  silently 
rolling  on  to  a  vast  undiscovered  ocean.  It 
had  rolled  on,  ever  since  the  world  began.  It 
had  changed  its  course  sometimes,  and 
turned  into  new  channels,  leaving  its  old 
■ways  dry  and  barren  ;  but  it  had  ever  been 
upon  the  flow,  and  ever  was  to  flow  until 
Time  shall  be  no  more.  Against  its  strong, 
unfathomable  stream,  nothing  made  head. 
No  living  creature,  no  flower,  no  leaf,  no 
particle  of  animate  or  inanimate  existence, 
ever  strayed  back  from  the  undiscovered 
ocean.  The  tide  of  the  river  set  resistlessly 
towards  it ;  and  the  tide  never  stopped, 
any  more  than  the  earth  stops  in  its  circling 
round  the  sun. 

He  lived  in  a  busy  place,  and  he  worked 
very  hard  to  live.  He  had  no  hope  of  ever 
being  rich  enough  to  live  a  month  without 
hard  work,  but  he  was  quite  content,  God 
knows,  to  labor  with  a  cheerful  will.  lie 
was  one  of  an  immense  family,  all  of  whose 
Bons  and  daughters  gained  their  daily  bread 
by  daily  work,  prolonged  from  their  rising 
up  betimes  until  their  lying  down  at  night. 
Beyond  this  destiny  he  had  no  prospect, 
and  he  sought  none. 

There  was  over-much  drumming,  trum- 
peting, and  speechmaking,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood where  he  dwelt ;  but  he  had  nothing 
to  do  with  that.  Such  clash  and  uproar 
came  from  the  Bigwig  family,  at  the  unac- 
countable proceedings  of  which  race  he 
marvelled  much.  They  set  up  the  strongest 
statues,  in  iron,  marble,  bronze,  and  brass, 
before  his  door ;  and  darkened  his  house 
with  the  legs  and  tails  of  uncouth  images 
of  horses.  He  wondered  what  it  all  meant, 
smiled  in  a  rough  good-humored  way  he 
had,  and  kept  at  his  hard  work. 

The  Bigwig  family  (composed  of  all  the 
noisiest)  had  undertaken  to  save  him  the 
trouble  of  thinking  for  himsolf,  and  to 
manage  him  and  his  aflfairs.  "  AVhy  truly," 
said  he,  "  I  have  little  time  upon  my 
hands ;  and  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to 
take  care  of  me  in  return  for  the  money  I 
pay  over" — for  the  Bigwig  fomily  were  not 
above  his  money — "I  shall  be  relieved  and 


much  obliged,  considering  that  you  know 
best."  Hence  the  drumming,  trumpeting, 
and  speechmaking,  and  the  ugly  images  of 
horses  which  he  was  expected  to  fall  down 
and  worship. 

"  I  don't  understand  all  this,"  said  he, 
rubbing  his  furrowed  brow  confusedly. 
"  But  it  7ias  a  meaning,  maybe,  if  I  could 
find  it  out." 

"  It  means,"  returned  the  Bigwig  family, 
suspecting  something  of  what  he  said, 
"  honor  and  glory  in  the  highest,  to  the 
highest  merit." 

"  Oh  !"  said  he.  And  he  was  glad  to  hear 
that. 

But,  when  he  looked  among  the  images  in 
iron,  marble,  bronze,  and  brass,  he  failed  to 
find  a  rather  meritorious  countryman  of  his, 
once  the  son  of  a  Warwickshire  wool-dealer, 
or  any  single  countryman  whomsoever,  of 
that  kind.  He  could  find  none  of  the  men 
whose  knowledge  had  rescued  him  and  his 
children  from  terrific  and  disfiguring  dis- 
ease, whose  boldness  has  raised  his  fore- 
fathers from  the  condition  of  serfs,  whose 
wise  fancy  had  opened  a  new  and  high  ex- 
istence to  the  humblest,  whose  skill  had 
filled  the  working  man's  world  with  accu- 
mulated wonders.  Whereas,  he  did  find 
others  whom  he  knew  no  good  of,  and  even 
others  whom  he  knew  much  ill  of. 

"Humph!"  said  he.  "I  don't  quite  un- 
derstand it." 

So,  he  went  home,  and  sat  down  by  his  fire- 
side to  get  it  out  of  his  mind. 

Now,  his  flrc-side  was  a  bare  one,  all 
hemmed  in  by  blackened  streets ;  but  it 
was  a  precious  place  to  him.  His  children, 
stunted  in  their  growth,  bore  traces  of  un- 
wholesome nurture  ;  but  they  had  beauty  in 
his  sight.  Above  all  other  things,  it  was 
an  earnest  desire  of  this  man's  soul  that  his 
children  should  be  taught.  "  If  I  am  some- 
times misled,"  said  he,  "  for  want  of  know- 
ledge, at  least  let  them  know  better,  and 
avoid  my  mistakes.  If  it  is  hard  to  me  to 
reap  the  harvest  of  pleasure  and  instruction 
that  is  stored  in  books,  let  it  be  easier  to 
them." 

But  the  Bigwig  family  broke  into  violent 


80 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


family  quarrels  concerning  what  it  was  law- 
ful to  teach  to  this  man's  children.  Some 
of  the  family  insisted  on  such  a  thing  being 
primary  and  indispensable  above  all  other 
things  ;  and  others  of  the  family  insisted  on 
8uch  another  thing  being  primary  and  in- 
dispensable above  all  other  things  ;  and  the 
Bigwig  fimily,  rent  into  factions,  wrote 
pamphlets,  held  convocations,  delivered 
charges,  orations,  and  all  varieties  of  dis- 
courses; impounded  one  another  in  courts 
Lay  and  courts  Ecclesiastical ;  threw  dirt, 
exchanged  pummelings,  and  fell  together  by 
the  ears  in  unintelligible  animosity.  Mean- 
while, this  man,  in  his  short  evening 
snatches  at  his  fire-side,  saw  the  demon 
Ignorance  arise  there,  and  take  his  children 
to  itself,  lie  saw  his  daughter  perverted 
into  a  heavy,  slatternly  drudge;  he  saw  his 
son  go  moping  down  the  ways  of  low  sensu- 
ality, to  brutality  and  crime  ;  he  saw  the 
dawning  light  of  intelligence  in  the  eyes  of 
his  babies  so  changing  into  cunning  and 
suspicion,  that  he  could  have  rather  wished 
them  idiots. 

"I  don't  understand  this  any  the  better," 
said  he  ;  "'  but  I  think  it  cannot  be  right. 
Nay,  by  the  clouded  Heaven  above  me,  I 
protest  against  this  as  my  wrong  !" 

Becoming  peaceable  again  (for  his  passion 
was  usually  short-lived,  and  his  nature  kind), 
he  looked  about  him  on  his  Sundays  and  holi- 
days, and  he  saw  how  much  monotony  and 
weariness  there  was,  and  thence  how  drunk- 
enness arose  with  all  its  train  of  ruin.  Then 
he  appealed  to  the  Bigwig  family,  and  said, 
"  We  are  a  laboring  people,  and  I  have  a 
glimmering  suspicion  in  me  that  laboring 
people  of  whatever  condition  were  made — 
by  a  higher  intelligence  than  yours,  as  I 
poorly  understand  it — to  be  in  need  of  men- 
tal refreshment  and  recreation.  See  what 
we  fall  into,  when  we  rest  without  it.  Come ! 
Amuse  me  harmlessly,  show  me  something, 
give  me  an  escape  !" 

But  here  the  Bigwig  family  fell  into  a 
state  of  uproar  absolutely  deafening.  When 
some  few  voices  were  faintly  heard,  pro- 
posing to  show  him  the  wonders  of  the  world, 
the  greatness  of  creation,  the  mighty  changes 
of  time,  the  workings  of  nature  and  the 
beauties  of  art — to  show  him  these  things, 
that  is  to  say,  at  any  period  of  his  life  when 
he  could  look  upon  them — there  arose 
among  the  Bigwigs  such  roaring  and  raving, 
such  pulpiting  and  petitioning,  such  maun- 
dering and  memorialising,  such  name-calling 
and  dirt-throwing,  such  a  shrill  wind  of  par- 
liamentary questioning  and  feeble  replying 
— where  "  I  dare  not"  waited  on  "  I  would" 
— that  the  poor  fellow  stood  aghast,  staring 
wildly  around. 

"  Have  I  provoked  all  this,"  said  he,  with 
his  hands  to  his  aifrighted  ears,  "  by  what 
was  meant  to  bo  an  innocent  request,  plainly 
arising  out  my  familiar  experience,  and  the 


common  knowledge  of  all  men  who  choose 
to  open  their  eyes  ?  I  don't  understand,  and 
I  am  not  understood.  What  is  to  come  of 
such  things?" 

He  was  bending  over  his  work,  often  ask- 
ing himself  the  question,  when  the  news 
began  to  spread  that  a  pestilence  had  ap- 
peared among  the  laborers,  and  was  slaying 
them  by  thousands.  Going  forth  to  look 
about  him,  he  soon  found  this  to  be  true. 
The  dying  and  the  dead  were  mingled  in  the 
close  and  tainted  houses  among  which  his 
life  was  passed.  New  poison  was  distilled 
into  the  always  murky,  always  sickening 
air.  The  robust  and  the  weak,  old  age  and 
infancy,  the  father  and  the  mother,  all  were 
stricken  down  alike. 

What  means  of  fight  had  he?  He  re- 
mained where  he  was,  and  saw  those  who 
were  dearest  to  him  die.  A  kind  preacher 
came  to  him,  and  would  have  said  some 
prayers  to  soften  his  heart  in  his  gloom,  but 
he  replied: 

"  0  what  avails  it,  missionary,  to  come  to 
me,  a  man  condemned  to  i*esidence  in  this 
foetid  place,  where  every  sense  becomes 
a  torment,  and  where  every  minute  of  my 
numbered  days  is  new  mire  added  to  the 
heap  under  which  I  lie  oppressed !  But 
give  me  my  first  glimpse  of  Heaven,  through 
a  little  of  its  light  and  air ;  give  me  pure 
water ;  help  me  to  be  clean  ;  lighten  this 
heavy  atmosphere  and  heavy  life,  in  which 
our  spirits  sink,  and  we  become  the  indiffer- 
ent and  callous  creatures  you  too  often  see 
us  ;  gently  and  kindly  take  the  bodies  of 
those  who  die  among  us,  out  of  the  small 
room  where  we  grow  to  be  so  familiar  with 
the  awful  change  that  even  its  sanctity  is 
lost  to  us;  and.  Teacher,  then  I  will  hear — 
none  know  better  than  you,  how  willingly 
— of  Him  whose  thoughts  were  so  much  with 
the  poor,  and  who  had  compassion  for  all 
human  sorrow !" 

He  was  at  his  work  again,  solitary  and 
sad,  when  his  Master  came  and  stood  near 
to  him,  dressed  in  black.  He,  also,  had 
suffered  heavily.  His  young  wife,  his  beau- 
tiful and  good  young  wife,  was  dead ;  so, 
too,  his  only  child. 

"  Master,  'tis  hard  to  bear — I  know  it — 
but  be  comforted.  I  would  give  you  com- 
fort, if  I  could. 

The  Master  thanked  him  from  his  heart, 
but  said  he,  "  0  you  laboring  men  !  The  ca- 
lamity began  among  you.  If  you  had  but 
lived  more  healthily  and  decently,  I  should 
not  be  the  widowed  and  bereft  mourner  that 
I  am  this  day." 

"  Master,"  returned  the  other,  shaking 
his  head,  "  I  have  begun  to  understand  a 
little  that  most  calamities  will  come  from 
us,  as  this  one  did,  and  that  none  will  stop 
at  our  poor  doors,  until  we  are  united  with 
that  great  squabbling  family  yonder,  to  dc 
the  things  that  are  right.     We  cannot  live 


NINE  NEW  STORIES  BY  THE   CHRISTMAS  FIRE. 


81 


nealthily  and  decently,  unless  they  who 
undertook  to  manage  us  provide  the  means. 
We  cannot  be  instructed,  unless  they  will 
teach  us  ;  we  cannot  be  rationally  amused, 
unless  they  will  amuse  us ;  we  cannot  but 
have  some  false  gods  of  our  own,  while  they 
eet  up  so  many  of  theirs  in  all  the  public 
places.  The  evil  consequences  of  imperfect 
instruction,  the  evil  consequences  of  per- 
nicious neglect,  the  evil  consequences  of 
unnatural  restraint  and  the  denial  of  hu- 
manizing enjoyments,  will  all  come  from  us, 
and  none  of  them  will  stop  with  us.  They 
will  spread  far  and  wide.  They  always 
do  ;  they  always  have  done — just  like  the 
pestilence.  I  understand  so  much,  I  think, 
at  last." 

But  the  Master  said  again,  "  0  you  labor- 
ing men !  how  seldom  do  we  ever  hear 
of  you,  except  in  connection  with  some 
trouble !" 

"  Master,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  Nobody,  and 
little  likely  to  be  heard  of  (nor  yet  much 
wanted  to  be  heard  of  perhaps),  except  when 
there  is  some  trouble.  But  it  never  begins 
with  me,  and  it  can  never  end  with  me. 
As  sure  as  Death,  it  comes  down  to  me,  and 
it  goes  up  from  me." 

There  was  so  much  reason  in  what  he 
said,  that  the  Bigwig  family,  getting  wind 
of  it,  and  being  horribly  frightened  by  the 
late  desolation,  resolved  to  unite  with  him 
to  do  the  things  that  were  right — at  all 
events,  so  far  as  the  said  things  were  asso- 
ciated with  the  direct  prevention,  humanly 
6 


speaking,  of  another  pestilence.  But,  as 
their  fear  wore  off,  which  it  soon  began  to 
do,  they  resumed  their  falling  out  among 
themselves,  and  did  nothing.  Consequently 
the  scourge  appeared  again — low  down  as 
before,  and  spread  avengingly  upward  aa 
before,  and  carried  off  vast  numbers  of  the 
brawlers.  But  not  a  man  among  them  ever 
admitted,  if  in  the  least  degree  he  ever  per- 
ceived, that  he  had  anything  to  do  with  it. 

So  Nobody  lived  and  died  in  the  old,  old, 
old  way  ;  and  this,  in  the  main,  is  the  whole 
of  Nobody's  story. 

Had  he  no  name,  you  ask?  Perhaps  it 
was  Legion.  It  matters  little  what  his 
name  was.     Let  us  call  him  Legion. 

If  you  were  ever  in  the  Belgian  villages 
near  the  field  of  Waterloo,  you  will  have 
seen,  in  some  quiet  little  church,  a  monu- 
ment erected  by  faithful  companions  in  arms 
to  the  memory  of  Colonel  A,  Major  B,  Cap- 
tains C,  D  and  E,  Lieutenants  F  and  6, 
Ensigns  H,  I  and  J,  seven  non-commissioned 
officers,  and  one  hundred  and  thirty  rank 
and  file,  who  fell  in  the  discharge  of  their 
duty  on  the  memorable  day.  The  story  of 
Nobody  is  the  story  of  the  rank  and  file  of 
the  earth.  They  bear  their  share  of  the 
battle  ;  they  have  their  part  in  the  victory  ; 
they  fall ;  they  leave  no  name  but  in  the 
mass.  The  march  of  the  proudest  of  us 
leads  to  the  dusty  way  by  which  they  go. 
0!  Let  us  think  of  them  this  year  at  the 
Christmas  fire,  and  not  forget  them  when  it 
is  burnt  out. 


HARD  TIMES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"Now,  what  I  want  is,  Facts.  Teach  these 
boys  and  girls  nothing  but  Facts.  Facts  alone 
are  wanted  in  life.  Plant  nothing  else,  and 
root  out  everything  else.  You  can  only  form 
the  minds  of  reasoning  animals  upon  Facts: 
nothing  else  will  ever  be  of  any  service  to 
them.  This  is  the  principle  on  which  I  bring 
up  my  own  children,  and  this  is  the  principle 
on  which  I  bring  up  these  children.  Stick  to 
Facts,  sir!" 

The  scene  was  a  plain,  bare,  monotonous 
vault  of  a  school-room,  and  the  speaker's 
square  fore  finger  emphasised  his  observations 
by  underscoring  every  sentence  with  a  line 
on  the  schoolmaster's  sleeve.  The  emphasis 
was  helped  by  the  speaker's  square  wall  of  a 
forehead,  which  had  his  eyebrows  for  its  base, 
while  his  eyes  found  commodious  cellarage  in 
two  dark  caves,  overshadowed  by  the  wall. — 
The  emphasis  was  helped  by  the  speaker's 
mouth,  which  was  wide,  thin,  and  hard  set. 
The  emphasis  was  helped  by  the  speaker's 
voice,  which  was  inflexible,  dry,  and  dictato- 
rial. The  emphasis  was  helped  by  the  speak- 
er's hair,  which  bristled  on  the  skirts  of  his 
bald  head,  a  plantation  of  firs  to  keep  the  wind 
from  its  shining  surface,  all  covered  with  knobs, 
like  the  crust  ot  a  plum  pie,  as  if  the  head 
had  scarcely  warehouse  room  for  the  hard  facts 
stored  inside.  The  speaker's  obstinate  car- 
riage, square  coat,  square  legs,  square  should- 
ers— nay,  his  very  neckcloth,  trained  to  take 
him  by  the  throat  with  an  unaccommodating 
grasp,  like  a  stubborn  fact,  as  it  was, — all  help- 
ed the  emphasis. 

"In  this  life,  we  want  nothing  but  Facts,  sir; 
nothing  but  Facts  !"' 

The  speaker  and  the  schoolmaster,  and  the 
third  grown  person  present,  all  backed  a  little, 
and  swept  with  their  eyes  the  inclined  plane 
of  little  vessels  then  and  there  arranged  in 
order,  ready  to  have  imperial  gallons  ot  facts 
poured  into  them  until  ihey  were  full  to  the 
brim. 


CHAPTER  II. 
Thomas  Oradgrind,  sir.  A  man  of  reali- 
ties. A  man  of  facts  and  calculations.  A 
man  who  proceeds  upon  the  principle  that 
two  and  two  are  four,  and  nothing  over,  and 
who  is  not  to  be  talked  int  >  alhnviiig  for  any- 
thing over.  Thomas  (iradgrind.  sir — peremp- 
torily Thomas — Thomas  Gradgrind.  With  a 
rule  and  a  pair  of  scales,  and  the  muhiplica- 
tion  table  always  in  his  pocket,  sir,  ready  to 


weigh  and  measure  any  parcel  of  human  na- 
ture, and  tell  you  exactly  what  it  comes  to.  It 
is  a  mere  question  of  figures,  a  case  of  simple 
arithmetic.  You  might  hope  to  get  some  other 
nonsensical  belief  into  the  head  of  George  Grad- 
grind, or  Augustus  Gradgrind,  or  John  Grad- 
grind, or  Joseph  Gradgrind,  (all  suppositious, 
non-existent  persons,)  but  into  the  head  of 
Thomas  Gradgrind — no,  sir. 

In  such  terms  Mr.  Gradgrind  always  men- 
tally introduced  himself,  whether  to  his  private 
circle  of  acquaintance,  or  to  the  public  in  gene- 
ral. In  such  terms,  no  doubt,  substituting 
the  words  "boys  and  girls,"  for  ".^ir,"  Thomas 
Gradgrind  now  presented  Thomas  Gradgrind 
to  the  little  pitchers  before  him,  who  were  to 
be  filled  so  full  of  facts. 

Indeed,  as  he  eagerly  sparkled  at  them  from 
the  cellarage  before  mentioned,  he  seemed  a 
kind  of  cannon  loaded  to  the  muzzle  with  facts, 
and  prepared  to  blow  them  clean  out  of  the 
regions  of  childhood  at  one  discharge.  He 
seemed  a  galvanising  apparatus,  too,  charged 
with  a  grim  mechanical  substitute  for  the  ten- 
der young  imaginations  that  were  to  be  storm- 
ed away. 

"Girl  number  twenty,"  said  Mr.  Grad/rind, 
squarely  pointing  with  his  square  forefinger, 
"i  don't  know  that   girl.     Who  is  that  girl  ?" 

"Sissy  Jupe,  sir,"  explained  number  twenty, 
blushing,  standing  up,  and  curtseying. 

"Sissy  is  not  a  name,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
"Don't  call  yourself  Sissy.  Call  yourself  Ce- 
cilia." 

"It's  father  as  calls  me  Sissy,  sir,"  returned 
the  young  girl  in  a  trembling  voice,  and  with 
another  curtsey. 

"Then  he  has  no  business  to  do  it,"  said 
Mr.  Gradgrind.  "Tell  him  he  mustn't,  Cecilia 
Jupe.     Lee  me  see.     What  is  your  father?" 

"He  belongs  to  the  horse-riding,  if  you 
please,  sir." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  frowned,  and  waved  oflFthe  ob- 
jectionable calling  with  his  hand. 

"We  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  that 
here.  You  mustn't  tell  us  about  that,  here. 
Your  father  breaks  horses,  don't  he?'' 

"If  you  please  sir,  when  they  can  get  any  to 
break,  they  do  break  horses  in  the  ring,  sir." 

"You  mustn't  tell  us  about  the  ring  here. 
Very  well,  then.  Describe  your  father  as  a 
hor.sebreaker.  He  doctors  sick  horses,  I  dare 
say?'' 

"Oh  yes,  sir." 

"Very  well,  then.  He  is  a  veterinary  sur- 
geon, a  farrier  and  horsebreaker.  Give  me  ycui 
definition  of  a  hoise." 


84 


DICKEXS'   NEAV   STORIES 


(Sissy  Jupe  thrown  into  the  greatest  alarm 
by  this  demand.) 

'"Girl  number  twenty  unable  to  define  a 
horse!"  said  Mr.  Gradjrriad,  fur  the  general 
behoof  of  all  the  little  pitchers.  "Girl  number 
twenty  possessed  of  no  facts  in  reference  to  one 
of  the  commonest  of  animals!  Some  boy's  de- 
finition of  a  horse.     Bitzer,  yours." 

The  square  fiuger,  moving  here  and  there, 
lighted  suddenly  on  Bitzer,  perhaps  because 
he  chanced  to  sit  in  the  same  ray  of  sunlight 
■which,  dartincr  in  at  one  of  the  bare  windows 
of  the  itiiensely  whitewashed  room,  irradiated 
Sissy.  For,  the  boys  and  girls  sat  on  the  face 
of  the  inclined  plane  in  two  compact  bodies, 
divided  up  the  centre  by  a  narrow  interval; 
and  Sissy,  being  at  the  corner  of  a  row  on  the 
sunny  side,  came  in  for  the  beginning  of  a 
sunbeam,  of  which  Bitzer,  being  at  the 
corner  of  a  row  on  the  other  side,  a  few 
rows  in  advance,  caught  the  end.  But, 
whereas  the  girl  was  so  dark-eyed  and  dark- 
haired,  that  she  seemed  to  receive  a  deeper 
and  more  lustrous  color  from  the  sun  when  it 
shone  upon  her,  the  boy  was  so  light-eyed  and 
light-haired  that  the  selfsame  rays  appeared 
to  draw  out  of  him  what  little  colour  he  ever 
possessed.  His  cold  eyes  would  hardly  have 
been  eyes,  but  for  the  short  ends  of  lashes 
•which,  by  bringing  them  into  immediate  con- 
trast with  something  paler  than  themselves, 
expressed  their  form.  His  short-cropped 
hair  might  have  been  a  mere  continuation  of 
the  sandy  freckles  on  his  forehead  and  face. 

His  skin  was  so  unwholesomely  deficient  in 
the  natural  tinge,  that  he  looked  as  though,  if 
he  (vere  cut,  he  would  bleed  white. 

"Bitzer,"  said  Thomas  Gradgrind.  "Your 
definition  of  a  horse." 

"Quadruped.  Graminivorous.  Forty  teeth, 
namely :  twenty-four  grinders,  four  eye-teeth, 
and  twelve  incisive.  Sheds  coat  in  the  spring; 
in  marshy  countries,  sheds  hoofs,  too.  Hoots 
hard,  but  requiring  to  be  shod  with  iron.  Age 
known  by  marks  in  mouth."  Thus  (and  much 
more)  Bitzer. 

"Now  girl  number  twenty,"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind.    "You  know  what  a  horse  is." 

She  curtseyed  again,  and  would  have  blushed 
deeper,  if  she  could  have  blushed  deeper  than 
she  had  blushed  all  this  time.  Bitzer,  after 
rapidly  blinking  at  Thomas  Gradgrind  with 
both  eyes  at  once,  and  so  catching  the  light 
upon  his  quivering  ends  of  lashes  that  they 
looked  like  the  antennte  of  busy  insects,  put 
his  knuckles  to  his  freckled  forehead,  and  sat 
down  again. 

The  third  gentleman  now  stepped  forth.  A 
mighty  man  at  cutting  and  drying,  he  was;  a 
government  officer ;  in  his  way  (and  in  most 
other  people's  too),  a  professed  pugilist;  alwa\s 
in  training,  always  with  a  system  to  force 
down  the  general  throat  like  a  bolus,  alwajs 
to  be  heard  of  at  the  bar  of  his  little  Public- 
office,  ready  to  fight  all  England.  To  con- 
tinue in  fistic  phraseology,  he  had  a  genius 
for  coming  up   to  the  scratch,  wherever   and 


whatever  it  was,  and  proving  himscif  an  ugly 
customer.  He  would  go  in  and  damage  any 
subject  whatever  with  his  right,  follow  up 
with  his  left,  stop,  exchange,  counter,  bore 
his  opponent  (he  always  fought  all  Eiig 
land)  to  the  ropes,  and  fall  upon  him  neatly. 
He  was  certain  to  knock  the  wind  out  of  com- 
mon sense,  and  render  that  unlucky  adversary 
deaf  to  the  call  of  time.  And  he  had  it  in 
charge  from  high  authority  to  bring  about  the 
great  public  office  Millenium,  when  Commis 
sioners  should  reign  upou  earth. 

"Very  well,"  said  this  gentleman,  briskly 
smiling,  and  folding  his  arms.  "That's  a 
horse.  Now,  let  me  ask  you,  girls  and  boys. 
Would  you  paper  a  room  with  i-epreseutatioua 
of  horses?" 

After  a  pause,  one  half  of  the  children 
cried  in  chorus,  "Yes,  sir!"  Upon  which 
the  ether  half,  seeing  in  the  gentleman's  face 
that  Yes  was  wrong,  cried  out  in  chorus 
"No,  sir  I" — as  the  custom  is  in  these  exami- 
nations. 

"Of  course.  No.     Why  wouldn't  you?" 

A  pause.  One  corpulent  slow  boy,  with  a 
wheezy  manner  of  breathing,  ventured  the 
answer,  Because  he  wouldn't  paper  a  rcomtit 
all,  but  would  paint  it. 

"You  must  paper  it,"  said  the  gentleman, 
rather  warmly. 

"You  must  paper  it,"  said  Thomas  Grad- 
grind, "whether  you  like  it  or  not.  Don't  tell 
us  you  wouldn't  paper  it.  What  do  you  mean, 
boy?" 

"I'll  explain  to  you,  then,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, after  another  and  a  dismal  pause,  "why 
yuu  wouldn't  paper  a  room  with  representa- 
tions of  horses.  Do  you  ever  see  horses  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  sides  of  rooms  in  reality — 
in  fact?     Do  you?" 

"Yes,  sir?"  from  one  half.  "No  sirl"  fior... 
the  other. 

"Of  course  no,"  said  the  gentleman  with 
an  indignant  look  at  the  wrong  half.  "Why, 
then,  you  are  not  to  see  anywhere,  what  you 
don't  see  in  fact;  you  are  not  to  haveany  where, 
what  you  don't  have  in  fact.  What  is  called 
Taste,  is  only  another  name  for  Fact." 

Thomas  Gradgrind  nodded  his  approbation. 

"This  is  a  new  principle,  a  discovery,  a 
great  discovery,"  said  the  gentleman.  "Now, 
I'll  try  you  again.  Suppose  you  were  going 
to  carpet  a  room.  Would  you  use  a  carpet 
having   a  representation  of  flowers  upon  it?" 

There  being  a  general  conviction  by  this 
time  that  "No,  sir,"  was  always  the  right 
answer  to  this  gentleman,  the  chorus  of  No 
was  very  strong.  Only  a  few  feeble  straggkn 
said  Yes;  among  them  Sissy  Jupe. 

"Girl  nuruber  twenty,"  said  the  gentleman, 
smiling  in  the  calm  strength  of  knowledge. 

Sissy  blushed,  and  stood  up. 

"So  you  would  carpet  your  room — or  your 
husband's  room,  if  you  were  a  grown  woman, 
and  had  a  husband — with  representations  (»! 
flowers,  would  you?"  said  the  gentleman. 
"Why  would  you?'' 


HARD  TIMES. 


85 


"If  you  please,  sir,  I  am  very  fond  of  flow- 
ers," returned  the  girl. 

"And  is  that  why  you  would  put  tables  and 
chairs  upon  them,  and  have  people  walking 
over  them  with  heavy  boots?" 

*'It  wouldn't  hurt  them,  sir.  They  wouldn't 
crush  and  wither,  if  you  please,  sir.  They 
would  be  the  pictures  of  what  was  very  pretty 
and  pleasant,  and  I  would  fancy " 

"Ay,  ay,  ay!  But  you  musn't  fancy,"  cried 
the  gentleman,  quite  elated  "ly  coming  so  hap- 
pily to  his  point.  "That's  iti  You  are  never 
to  fancy." 

"You  are  not,  Mary  Jupe,"  Thomas  Grad- 
grind  solemnly  repeated,  "to  do  anything  of 
that  kind." 

"Fact,  fact,  fact!"  said  the  gentleman.  And 
"Fact,  fact,  fact!"  repeated  Thomas  Grad- 
grind 

"  You  are  to  be  in  all  things  regulated  and 
governed,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  by  fact. 
We  hope  to  have,  before  long,  a  board  of  fact, 
composed  cf  commissioners  of  fact,  who  will 
force  the  people  to  be  a  people  of  fact,  and 
of  nothing  but  fact.  You  must  discard  the 
word  Fancy  altogether.  You  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  You  are  not  to  have,  in  any  object 
of  use  or  ornamsnt,  what  would  be  a  contra- 
diction in  fact.  You  don't  walk  upon  flowers 
in  fact;  you  cannot  be  allowed  to  walk  upon 
fluwers  i'n  carpets.  You  don't  find  that  fo- 
reign birds  and  butterflies  come  and  perch 
u|jou  your  crockery  ;  you  cannot  be  permitted 
to  paint  foreign  birds  and  butterflies  upon 
your  crockery.  You  never  meet  with  quad- 
rujjeds  going  up  and  down  walls;  you  must 
not  have  quadrupeds  represented  upon  walls. 
You  must  use,"  said  the  gentleman,  "for  all 
these  purposes,  combinations  and  modifications 
(ill  primary  colors)  of  mathematical  figures 
^vh^ch  are  susceptible  of  pru»f  and  demonstra- 
tion. This  is  the  new  discovery.  This  is  fact. 
This  is  taste." 

The  girl  curtseyed,  and  sat  down.  She  was 
vei'y  young,  and  she  looked  as  if  she  were 
frightened  Ijy  the  matter  of  fact  prospect  the 
wurld  aftbrJed." 

"Now,  if  Mr.  M'Choakumchild,"  said  the 
gt^ntleman,  "will  proceed  to  give  his  first 
lesson  here,  Mr.  Gradgr  nd,  1  shall  be  happy, 
ai  your  request,  to  observe  his  mode  of  pro- 
cedure." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  was  much  obliged.  "Mr. 
M'Choakumchild,  we  only  wait  tor  you." 

"oo  Mr.  M'Choakumchild  began  in  his  best 
manner.  He  and  some  one  humlred  and  forty 
other  schoolmasters,  had  been  lately  turned 
at  the  same  time,  in  the  same  factory,  on  the 
same  principles,  like  so  many  pianotorte  legs. 
lie  had  been  put  through  an  immense  variety 
of  paces,  and  had  answered  volumes  of  head 
breaking  questions.  Orthography,  etymology, 
syntax,  and  prosody,  biography,  astronom>, 
geography,  and  general  cosmographj,  the 
sciences  of  compound  proponion,  algebra, 
land  surveying  and  levelling,  vocal  music,  and 
drawing    from    models,    were  all   at  the  ends 


of  his  ten  chilled  fingers.  He  had  worked  his 
stoney  way  into  Her  Majesty's  most  Honor- 
able Privy  Council's  Schedule  B,  and  had 
taken  the  bloom  off"  the  higher  branches  of 
mathematics  and  physical  science,  French, 
German,  Latin,  and  Greek.  He  knew  all 
about  all  the  Water  Sheds  of  all  the  World 
(whatever  they  are,)  and  all  the  histories  of 
all  the  peoples,  and  all  the  names  of  all  the 
rivers  and  mountains,  and  all  the  prodtictions, 
manners  and  customs  of  all  the  countries,  and 
all  their  boundaries  and  bearings  on  the  two 
and  thirty  points  of  the  compass.  Ah,  rather 
overdone,  xM'Choakumchild.  If  he  had  only 
learnt  a  little  less,  how  infinitely  better  he 
might  have  taught  much  more  I 

He  went  to  work  in  this  }  reparatory  lesson, 
not  unlike  Morgiana  in  the  Forty  Thieves  : 
looking  into  all  the  vessels  ranged  before  him, 
one  after  another,  to  see  what  they  contained. 
Say,  good  M'Choakumchild.  When  from  thy 
boiling  store,  thou  shalt  fill  each  jar  brim 
full  by  and  by,  dost  thou  think  that  thou  wilt 
always  kill  outright  the  robber  Fancy  lurking 
within — or  sometimes  ouly  maim  him  and  dis- 
tort him! 


CHAPTER  III 

Mr.  Gradgrind  walked  homeward  froHi 
the  school,  in  a  state  of  considerable  satis- 
faction. It  was  his  school,  and  he  intended  it 
to  be  a  model.  He  intended  every  child  in  it 
to  be  a  model — just  as  the  young  Gradgrinds 
were  all  models. 

There  were  five  young  Gradgrinds,  and  they 
were  models  every  one.  They  had  been  lec- 
tured at,  from  their  tenderest  years;  coursed, 
like  little  hares.  Almost  as  soon  as  they  could 
run  alone,  they  had  been  made  to  run  to  the 
lecture-room.  The  first  object  with  which 
they  had  an  association,  or  of  which  they  had 
a  remembrance,  was  a  large  black-board  with 
a  dry  Ogre  chalking  ghastly  white  figures 
on  it. 

Not  that  they  knew,  by  name  or  nature,  any- 
thingabout  an  Ogre.  Fact  forbid  !  I  only  use 
the  word  to  express  a  monster  in  a  lecturing 
castle,  with  Heaven  knows  how  many  heads 
manipulated  into  one,  taking  childhood  cap- 
tive, and  dragging  it  into  gloomy  statistical  dens 
by  the  hair. 

No  little  Gradgrind  had  ever  seen  a  face 
in  the  moon;  it  was  up  in  the  moon  before 
it  could  speak  distinctly.  No  little  Grad- 
grind hud  ever  learnt  the  silly  jiugle,  Twinkle 
twinkle,  little  star;  how  I  wonder  what  vou 
are;  it  had  never  known  wonder  on  the 
subject,  having  at  five  years  old  dissected  the 
Great  Bear  like  a  Professor  Owen,  and  driven 
Charles's  Wain  like  a  locomotive  engine- 
driver.  No  little  Gradgrind  had  ever  associ- 
ated a  cow  in  a  field  with  that  famous  cow  with 
the  crumpled  horn  who  tossed  the  dog  who 
worried  the  cat  who  killed  the  rat  who  ate  the 
malt,  or  with  that  yet  more  famous  cow  who 
swallowed  Tom  Thuuib  ;  it  had  never  heard  of 


86 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


these  celebrities,  and  had  only  been  introduced 
to  a  cow  as  a  graminivorous  runiiuating  qua- 
druped with  several  stomachs. 

To  his  matter  of  i'act  home,  which  was 
called  Stone  Lodge,  Mr.  Gradgriiid  directi-d 
his  steps.  He  had  virtually  retired  from  the 
wholesale  hardware  trade  before  he  built 
Stone  Lodge,  and  was  now  looking  about  for 
a  suitable  opportunity  of  making  an  arithmeti- 
cal figure  in  Parliament.  Stone  Lodge  was 
situated  on  a  moor  within  a  mile  or  two  of  a 
great  town — called  Coketowu  in  the  present 
faithful  guide-book. 

A  very  regular  feature  on  the  face  of  the 
country.  Stone  Lodge  was.  Not  the  least  dis- 
guise toned  down  or  shaded  off  that  un- 
compromising fact  in  the  landscape.  A  great 
square  liouse,  with  a  heavy  portico  darkening 
the  principal  windows,  as  its  master's  heavy 
brows  overshadowed  his  eyes.  A  calculated, 
cast  up,  balanced  and  proved  house.  Six 
windows  on  this  side  of  the  door,  six  on  that 
side;  a  total  of  twelve  in  this  wing,  a  total  of 
twelve  in  the  other  wing;  four  and  twenty  car- 
ried over  to  the  back.  A  lawn  and  garden  and 
an  infant  avenue,  all  ruled  straight  like  a  bota- 
nical account-book.  Gas  and,  ventilation, 
drainage  and  water-service,  all  of  the  priniest 
quality.  Iron  clamps  and  girders,  fireproof 
from  top  to  bottom;  mechanical  lifts  for  the 
housemaids,  with  all  their  brushes  and  brooms; 
everything  that  heart  could  desire. 

Everything?  Well  I  suppose  so.  The 
little  Gradgrinds  had  cabinets  in  various  de- 
partments of  science  too.  They  had  a  little 
conchological  cabinet,  and  alittle  metallurgical 
cabinet,  and  a  little  mineralogical  cabinet;  and 
the  specimens  were  all  arranged  and  labelled; 
and  the  bits  of  stone  and  ore  looked  as  thouo-h 
they  might  have  been  broken  from  their  parent 
substances  by  those  tremendously  hard  instru- 
ments, their  own  names  ;  and,  to  paraphrase 
the  idle  legend  of  Peter  Piper,  who  had  never 
found  his  way  into  their  nursery,  if  the  little 
greedy  Gradgrinds  grasped  at  more  than  this, 
what  was  it  tor  good  gracious  goodness  sake, 
that  the  greedy  little  Gradgrinds  grasped  at  1 

Their  father  walked  on  in  a  hopeful  and 
satisfied  frame  of  mind.  He  was  an  affectionate 
father,  after  his  manner;  but  he  would  proba- 
bly have  described  himself  (if  he  had  been 
put,  like  Sissy  Jupe,  upon  a  definition)  as  ''an 
eminently  practical"  father.  He  had  a  par- 
ticular pride  in  the  phrase  eminently  practi- 
cal, which  was  considered  to  have  a  special 
application  to  him.  Whatsoever  the  public 
meeting  held  in  Coketown,  and  whatsoever 
the  subject  of  such  meeting,  some  Coketowner 
was  sure  to  seize  the  occasion  of  alluding 
to  his  eminently  practical  friend  Gradgrind. 
This  always  pleased  the  eminently  practical 
friend.  He  knew  it  to  be  his  due,  but  his  due 
■was  acceptable. 

He  had  reached  the  neutral  ground  upon 
the  outskirts  of  the  town,  which  was  neither 
town  nor  country,  and  }el  was  either  spoiled, 
when  his  ears  were   invaded  by  the  sound  of 


music.  The  clashing  and  banging  band  at- 
tached to  the  horse-riding  establish meni 
which  had  there  set  up  its  rest  in  a  wooden 
paviUon,  was  in  full  bray.  A  flag,  floating 
from  the  summit  of  the  temple,  proc'aimed 
to  mankind  that  it  was  "Sleary's  Horse- 
riding"'  which  claimed  their  sallrages.  Sleary 
himself,  a  stout  modern  statue  with  a 
money-box  at  its  eibow,  in  an  ecclesias- 
tical niche  of  early  Gothic  architecture, 
took  the  money.  Miss  Josephine  Sleary,  as 
some  very  lon^  and  very  narrow  strips  ol 
printed  bills  announced,  was  then  inaugura- 
tingthe  entertainments  with  her  graceful  eques- 
trian Tyrolean  flower-act.  Among  the  other 
pleasing  but  always  strictly  moral  wonders 
which  must  be  seen  to  be  believed,  Signor 
Jupe  was  that  aferuoon  to  "elucidate  the  di- 
verting accomplishments  of  his  highly  train- 
ed performing  dog  Merrylegs."  He  was  also 
to  exhibit  "  his  astounding  feat  of  throwing 
seventy-five  hundred  weight  in  rapid  succes- 
sion backhanded  over  his  head,  thus  forming  a 
fountain  of  solid  iron  in  mid  air,  a  feat  never 
before  attempted  in  this  or  any  other  coun 
try;  and  which,  having  elicited  such  rapturous 
plaudits  from  enthusiastic  throngs,  it  cannot 
be  withdrawn."  The  same  Signor  Jupe  was 
to  "  enliven  the  varied  performances  at  fre- 
quent intervals  with  his  chaste  Shaksperean 
quips  and  retorts."  Lastly,  he  was  to  wind 
them  up  by  appearing  in  his  favorite  character 
of  Mr.  William  Button,  of  Tooley  street,  in 
"the  highly  novel  and  laughable  hippocome- 
dietta  of  The  Tailor's  Journey  to  Brentford.'' 

Thomas  Gradgrind  took  no  heed  of  these 
trivialities  of  course,  but  passed  on  as  a  prac- 
tical man  ought  to  pass  on,  either  brushing  the 
noisy  insects  from  his  thoughts,  or  consigning 
them  to  the  House  of  Correction.  But,  the 
turning  of  the  road  took  him  by  the  back  of  the 
booth,  and  at  the  back  of  the  booth  a  number 
of  children  were  congregated  in  a  number  ol 
stealthy  attitudes,  striving  to  peep  in  at  the 
hidden  glories  of  the  place. 

This  brought  him  to  a  stop.  "Now,  to 
think  of  these  vagabonds,"  said  he,  "attracting 
the  young  rabble  from  a  model  school!" 

A  space  of  stunted  grass  and  dry  rubbish 
being  between  him  and  the  young  rabble,  he 
took  hia  eyeglass  out  of  his  waistcoat  to  look 
for  any  child  he  knew  by  name,  and  might 
order  off.  Phenomenon  almost  incredible 
though  distinctly  seen,  what  did  he  then  be- 
hold but  his  own  metallurgical  Louisa  peep- 
ing with  all  her  might  through  a  hole  in  a 
deal  board,  and  his  own  mathematical  Thomas 
abasing  himself  on  the  ground  to  catch  but  a 
hoof  of  the  graceful  equestrian  Tyrolean  flower 
act  1 

Dumb  with  amazement,  Mr.  Gradgrind 
crossed  to  the  spot  where  his  family  was  thus 
disgraced,  laid  his  hand  upon  each  erritg 
child,  and  said  : 

"Louisa!!    Thomas!!" 
Both  rose,  red  and  disconcerted.  But,  Louisa 
looked  at  her  father  with  more  boldness  than 


HARD  TIMES. 


87 


Thomas  did.  Indeed,  Thomas  did  not  look  at 
him,  but  gave  himself  up  to  be  taken  home  like 
a  machine. 

"In  the  name  of  wonder,  idleness,  and  fol- 
ly!" said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  leading  each  away 
by  a  hand  ;  "what  do  you  do  here?" 

"Wanted  to  see  what  it  was  like,"  returned 
Louisa  shortly. 

"What  it  was  like  ?" 

"Yes,  father." 

There  was  an  air  of  jaded  sullehness  in 
them  both,  and  particularly  in  the  girl;  yet, 
struggling  through  the  dissatisfaction  of  her 
face,  there  was  a  light  with  nothing  to  rest 
upon,  a  fire  with  nothing  to  burn,  a  starved 
imagination  keeping  life  in  itself  somehow, 
which  brightened  its  expression.  Not  with 
the  brightness  natural  to  cheerful  youth,  but 
with  uncertain;  eager  doubtl'ul  flashes,  which 
had  something  painful  in  them,  analogous  to 
the  changes  of  a  blind  face  groping  its  way. 

She  was  a  child  now,  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  ; 
but  at  no  distant  day  would  seem  to  become  a 
woman  all  at  once.  Her  father  thought  so  as 
he  looked  at  her.  She  was  pretty.  Would 
have  been  self-willed  (he  thought  in  his  emi- 
nently practical  way)  but  for  her  bringingup. 

"Thomas,  though  I  have  the  fact  before  me, 
I  find  it  difficult  to  believe  that  you,  with  your 
education  and  resources,  should  have  brought 
your  sister  to  a  scene  like  this." 

"I  brought  /a'm,  father,"  said  Louisa,  quickly. 
"I  asked  him  to  come." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  I  am  very  sorry,  in- 
deed, to  hear  it.  It  makes  Thomas  no  better, 
and  it  makes  you  worse,  Louisa." 

She  looked  at  her  father  again,  but  no  tear 
fell  down  her  cheek. 

"You!  Thomas  and  yon,  to  whom  the  circle 
of  the  sciences  is  open,  Thomas  and  you  who 
may  be  said  to  be  replete  with  facts,  Thomas 
and  you  who  have  been  trained  to  mathemati- 
cal exactness,  Thomas  and  you  here!"  cried 
Mr.  Gradgrind.  "In  this  degraded  position! 
I  am  amazed." 

"I  was  tired,  father.  I  have  been  tired  a 
long  time,"  said  Louisa. 

"Tired?  Of  what?"  asked  the  astonished 
father. 

"I  don't  know  of  what— of  everything  I 
think." 

"Say  not  another  word,"  returned  Mr.  Grad- 
grind. "You  are  childish.  I  will  hear  no 
more."  He  did  not  speak  again  until  they 
had  walked  some  half-a-mile  in  silence,  when 
he  gravely  broke  out  with  :  "What  would 
your  best  friends  say,  Louisa  ?  Do  you  attach 
no  value  to  their  good  opinion  ?  What  would 
Mr.  Bounderby  say  ?" 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  his  daughter 
stole  a  look  at  him,  remarkable  for  its  intense 
and  searching  character.  He  saw  nothing  of 
it,  for  before  he  looked  at  her  she  had  again 
cast  down  her  eyes!" 

"VV^hat,"  he  repeated  presently,  "would  Mr. 
Bou':derby  say?"  All  the  way  to  Stone  Lodge, 
as  with  grave   indignation  he  led  the  two  de- 


linquents home,  he  repeated  at  intervals, 
"What  would  Mr.  Bounderby  say?" — as  if  Mr 
Bounderby  had  been  Mrs.  Grundy. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Not  being  Mrs.  Grundy,  who  was  Mr.  Boun- 
derby? 

Why,  Mr.  Bounderby  was  as  near  being  Mr. 
Gradgrind's  bosom  friend  as  a  man  perfectly 
devoid  of  sentiment  can  approach  that  spiritual 
relationship  towards  another  man  perfectly  de- 
void of  sentiment.  So  near  was  Mr.  Bounder- 
by— or,  if  the  reader  should  prefer  it,  so  far  olf. 

He  was  a  rich  man :  banker,  merchant, 
manufacturer,  and  what  not.  A  big,  loud 
man,  with  a  stare  and  a  metallic  laugh.  A 
man  made  out  of  a  coarse  material,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  stretched  to  make  so 
much  of  him.  A  man  with  a  great  puffed 
head  and  forehead,  swelled  veins  in  his  tem- 
ples, and  such  a  strained  skin  to  his  face  that 
it  seemed  to  hold  his  eyes  open  and  lift  his 
eyebrows  up.  A  man  with  a  pervading  ap- 
pearance on  him  of  being  inflated  like  a  bal- 
loon, and  ready  to  start.  A  man  who  could 
never  sufficiently  vaunt  himself  a  selfmade 
man.  A  man  who  was  always  proclaiming, 
through  that  brassy  speaking-trumpet  of  a 
voice  of  his,  his  old  ignorance  and  his  old 
poverty.  A  man  who  was  the  Bully  of  hu- 
mility. 

A  year  or  two  younger  than  his  eminently 
practical  friend,  Mr.  Bounderby  looked  older ; 
his  seven  or  eight  and  forty  might  have  had 
the  seven  or  eight  added  to  it  again,  without 
surprising  anybody.  He  had  not  much  hair. 
One  might  have  fancied  he  had  talked  it  off; 
and  that  what  was  left,  all  standing  up  in  dis- 
order, was  in  that  condition  from  being  con- 
stantly blown  about  by  his  windy  boastfulness. 

In  the  formal  drawing  room  of  Stone 
Lodge,  standing  on  the  hearth-rug,  warming 
himself  before  the  fire,  Mr.  Bounderby  de- 
livered some  observations  to  Mrs.  Gradgrind 
on  the  circumstance  of  its  being  his  birthday. 
He  stood  before  the  fire,  partly  because  it  was 
a  cool  spring  afternoon,  though  the  sun  shone 
partly  because  the  shade  of  fetone  Lodge  was 
always  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  damp  mor 
tar;  partly  because  he  thus  took  up  a  com 
manding  position,  from  which  to  subdue  Mrs 
Gradgrind. 

"I  hadn't  a  shoe  to  my  foot.  As  to  a  stock 
ing,  I  didn't  know  such  a  thing  by  name.  I 
passed  the  day  in  a  ditch,  and  the  night  in  a 
pigsty.  That's  the  way  I  spent  my  tenth  birth- 
day. Not  that  a  ditch  was  new  to  me,  for  I 
was  born  in  a  ditch." 

Mrs.  Gradgrind,  a  little,  thin,  white,  pink- 
eyed  bundle  of  shawls,  of  surpassing  feebleness, 
mental  and  bodily ;  who  was  always  taking 
physic  without  any  effect,  and  who,  whenever 
she  showed  a  symptom  of  coming  to  lile,  was 
invariably  stunned  by  some  weighty  piece  of 
fact  tumbling  on  her  ;  Mrs.  Gradgrind  hoped 
it  was  a  dry  ditch  ? 


88 


DICKEXS'   NEW   STORIES. 


"No  I  As  wet  as  a  sop.  A  foot  of  water  in 
it;"  said  Mr.  Bounderby. 

"  Enough  to  give  a  baby  cold,"  Mrs.  Grad- 
grind  considered. 

"Cold?  I  was  born  with  inflammation  of 
the  lungs,  and  of  everything  else,  I  believe, 
that  was  capable  of  inilamination,"  returned 
Mr.  Bounderby.  "For  years,  ma'am,  I  was 
one  of  the  most  miserable  little  wretches  ever 
seen.  I  was  so  sickly,  that  I  was  always 
moaning  and  groaning.  I  was  so  ragged  and 
dirty,  that  you  wouldn't  have  touched  me  with 
a  pair  of  tongs." 

Mrs.  Gradgrind  faintly  looked  at  the  tongs, 
as  the  most  appropriate  thing  her  imbecility 
could  think  of  doiug. 

"  How  I  fought  through  it,  I  don't  know," 
said  Bounderby.     "  I  was  determined,  I  sup- 

f)Ose.  I  have  been  a  determined  character  in 
ater  life,  and  I  suppose  I  was  then.  Here  I 
am,  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  anyhow,  and  nobody  to 
thank  for  my  being  here  but  myself." 

Mrs.  Gradgrind  meekly  and  weakly  hoped 
that  his  mother — 

".Vy  mother?  Bolted,  ma'am!"  said  Boun- 
derby. 

Mrs.  Gradgrind,  stunned  as  usual, collapsed 
and  gave  it  up. 

"My  mother  left  me  to  my  grandmother," 
said  Bounderby;  "and,  according  to  the  best 
of  my  remembrance,  my  grandmother  was 
the  wickedest  and  the  worst  old  woman  that 
ever  lived.  If  I  got  a  little  pair  of  shoes  by 
any  chance,  she  would  take  'em  off  and  sell 
'em  for  drink.  Why,  I  have  known  that 
grandmother  of  mine  lie  in  her  bed  and  drink 
her  fourteen  glasses  of  liquor  before  break- 
fast!" 

Mrs.  Gradgrind,  weakly  smiling,  and  giving 
no  other  sign  of  vitality,  looked  (as  she  always 
did)  like  an  indifferently  executed  transparency 
of  a  small  female  figure,  without  enough  light 
behind  it. 

"She  kept  a  chandler's  shop,"  pursued 
Bounderby,  "and  kept  me  in  an  egg-box. 
That  was  the  cot  of  my  infancy;  an  old  egg- 
box.  As  soon  as  I  was  big  enough  to  run 
away,  of  course  I  ran  away.  Then  I  became 
a  youug  vagabond;  and  instead  of  one  old 
woman  knocking  me  about  and  starving  me, 
everybody  of  all  ages  knocked  me  about  and 
starved  me.  They  were  right;  they  had  no 
business  to  do  anything  else.  I  was  a  nui- 
sance, an  incumbrance,  and  a  pest.  I  know 
that,  very  well." 

His  pride  in  having  at  any  time  of  his  life 
achieved  such  a  great  social  distinction  as  to 
be  a  nuisance,  an  incumbrance  aud  a  pest, 
was  only  to  be  satisfied  by  three  sonorous  lepe- 
titions  of  the  boiist. 

"I  was  to  pull  through  it,  I  supjiose,  Mrs. 
Gradgrind.  Whether  I  was  to  do  ii  or  not, 
ma'am,  1  ilid  it.  I  pulled  through  it,  thou.i^h 
nobody  threw  me  out  a  rope.  Vagiiboud, 
erranii-boy,  vagabond,  laborer,  porter,  clerk, 
chief  manager,  small  partner,  Josiah  Bound- 
erby of  Coketown.     Thoseare  the  antecedents, 


and  the  culmination.  Josiah  Bounderby 
of  Coketown  learnt  his  letters  from  the  ouisidt- s 
of  the  shops,  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  and  was  first  able 
to  tell  the  lime  upon  a  dial-plate,  from  studying 
the  steeple  clock  of  St.  Giles'  Lhurch,  London, 
under  the  direction  of  a  drunken  cripplp,  who 
was  a  convicted  thief  and  an  incorngitile  va- 
grant. Tell  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown, 
of  your  district  schools,  and  your  model  schools, 
and  your  training  schools,  and  your  whole  ket- 
tle-offish of  schools;  and  Josiah  Bounderby  of 
Coketown  tells  you  plainly,  all  right,  all  cor- 
rect— he  hadn't  such  advantages — but  let  us 
have  hard-headed,  solid  fisted  people — the  edu- 
cation that  made  him  won't  do  for  everybody, 
he  knows  well — such  and  such  his  education 
was,  however,  and  you  may  force  him  to  swal- 
low boiling  fat,  but  you  shall  never  force  him 
to  suppress  the  facts  of  his  life." 

Being  heated  when  he  arrived  at  this 
climax,  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown  stopped. 
He  stopped  just  as  his  eminently  practical 
friend,  still  accompanied  by  the  two  youug 
culprits,  entered  the  room.  His  eminently 
practical  friend,  on  seeing  him,  stopped  also, 
and  gave  Louisa  a  reproachful  look  that 
plainly  said,   "Behold  your  Bounderby!" 

"Well!"  blustered  Mr.  Bounderby,  "what's 
the  matter?  What  is  young  Thomas  in  the 
dumps  about?" 

He  spoke  of  young  Thomas,  but  he  looked 
at  Louisa. 

"We  were  peeping  at  the  circus,"  muttered 
Louisa  haughtily,  without  lifting  up  her  eyes, 
"  and  father  caught  us." 

"And  Mrs.  Gradgrind,"  said  her  husband 
in  a  lofty  manner,  "I  should  as  soon  have 
expected  to  find  my  children  reading  poetry." 

"Dear  me,"  whimpered  Mrs.  Gradgrind. 
"How  can  you,  Louisa  and  Thomas!  1  won- 
der at  you.  I  declare  you're  enough  to  make 
one  regret  ever  having  had  a  family  at  all.  I 
have  a  great  mind  to  say  I  wish  I  hadn't. 
Tiien  what  would  you  have  done,  I  should  like 
to  know." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  did  not  seem  favorably  im- 
pressed by  these  cogent  remarks.  He  frowuid 
impatiently. 

"As  if,  with  my  head  in  its  present  throb- 
bing state,  you  couldn't  go  and  look  at  the 
shells  and  minerals  and  things  provided  for 
you,  instead  of  circuses!"  said  Mrs.  Graa- 
griad.  "You  know,  as  well  as  1  do,  no  youug 
people  have  circus  masters,  or  keep  circuses 
in  cabinets,  or  attend  lectures  about  circuses. 
What  can  you  possibly  want  to  know  of  cir- 
cuses then?  I  am  sure  you  have  enough  to 
do,  if  that's  what  you  want.  With  my  head  in 
its  present  state,  I  couldn't  remember  the  mere 
names  of  half  the  facts  you  have  got  to  attend 
to." 

'•That's  the  reason  1"  pouted  Louisa. 

"Don't  tell  me  that's  the  reason,  because  it 
can  be  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Mrs.  Grad 
grind.  "Go  and  be  somethingological  direct 
h."  Mrs.  Gradgrind  was  not  a  scientific  cha- 
racter, and  usually  dismissed  her  children  to 


HARD  TIMES. 


89 


their  studies  with  this   general   injunction  to 
choose  their  pursuit. 

In  truth,  Mrs.  Gradgrind's  stock  of  facts  in 
general  was  woefully  defective,  but  Mr.  Grad- 
grind  in  raising  her  to  her  high  matrimonial 
position  had  been  influenced  by  two  reasons. 
Firstly,  she  was  most  satisfactory  as  a  ques- 
tion of  figures;  and,  secondly,  she  had  "no 
nonsense"  about  her.  By  nonsense  he  meant 
fancy;  and  truly  it  is  probable  she  was  as  free 
from  any  alloy  of  that  nature,  as  any  human 
being  not  arrived  at  the  perfection  of  an  abso- 
lute idiot,  ever  was. 

The  simple  circumstance  of  being  left  alone 
with  her  husband  and  Mr.  Bounderby,  was 
sufficient  to  stun  this  admirable  lady  again, 
without  collision  between  herself  and  any 
other  fact.  So,  she  once  more  died  away,  and 
nobody  minded  her. 

"Bounderby,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  drawing 
a  cliair  to  the  fireside,  "you  are  always  so 
interested  in  my  young  people — particularly 
in  Louisa — that  1  make  no  apology  for  saying 
to  you,  I  am  very  much  vexed  by  this  dis- 
covery. I  have  systematically  devoted  myself 
(as  you  know)  to  the  education  of  the  reason 
of  my  family.  The  reason  is  (as  you  know) 
the  only  faculty  to  which  education  should  be 
addressed.  And  yet,  Bounderby,  it  would  ap- 
pear from  this  unexpected  circumstance  of 
to-day,  though  in  itself  a  trifling  one,  as  if 
something  had  crept  into  Thomas's  and 
Louisa's  minds  which  is — or  rather,  which  is 
not — I  don't  know  that  I  can  express  myself 
better  than  by  saying — which  has  never  been 
intended  to  be  developed,  and  in  which  their 
reason  has  no  part." 

"There  certainly  is  no  reason  in  looking 
with  interest  at  a  parcel  of  vagabonds,"  re- 
turned Bounderby.  "When  I  was  a  vagabond 
myself,  noboily  looked  with  any  interest  at  me; 
I  know  that." 

"Then  comes  the  question,"  said  the  emi- 
nently practical  father,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
fire,  "in  what  has  this  vulgar  curiosity  its 
rise?" 

"I'll  tell  you  in  what.   In  idle  imagination." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  the  eminently  practical; 
"I  confess,  however,  that  the  misgiving  hati 
crossed  me  on  my  way  home." 

"In  idle  imagination,  Gradgrind,"  repeated 
Bounderby.  "A  very  bad  thing  for  anybody, 
but  a  cursed  bad  thing  for  a  girl  like  Louisa. 
I  should  ask  Mrs.  Gradgrind's  pardon  forstrong 
expressions,  but  that  she  knows  very  well  I  am 
not  a  refined  character.  Whoever  expects  re- 
finement in  me,  will  be  disappointed.  I  hadn't 
a  refined  bringing  up." 

"Whether,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  pondering 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  cavern 
ous  eyes  on  the  fire,  "whether  any  instructor 
or  servant  can  have  suggested  anything  ? 
Whether  Louisa  or  Thomas  can  have  been 
reading  anything?  Whether,  in  spite  of  all 
precaiftious,  any  idle  story  book  can  have  got 
into  the  house  ?  Because,  in  minds  that  have 
been  practically  formed  by  rule  and  line,  from 


the  cradle  upwards,  this  is  so  curious,  so  in- 
comprehensible." 

"btop  a  bitl"  cried  Bounderby,  who  all  thig 
time  had  been  standing,  as  before,  on  the 
hearth,  bursting  at  the  very  furniture  of  the 
room  with  explosive  humility.  "You  have  one 
of  those  strollers'  children  in  the  school." 

"Cecilia  Jupe,  by  name,"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, with  something  of  a  stricken  look  at  his 
friend. 

"Now,  stop  a  bit!"  cried  Bounderby  again. 
"How  did  she  come  there?" 

"Why,  the  fact  is,  I  saw  the  girl  myself  for 
the  first  time,  only  just  now.  She  specially 
applied  here  at  the  house  to  be  admitted,  as 
not  regularly  belonging  to  our  town,  and 
—  yes,  you  are  right,  Bounderby,  you  are 
right." 

"Nowstopabit!"cried  Bounderby,  once  more. 
"Louisa  saw  her  when  she  came?" 

"Louisa  certainly  did  see  her,  for  f-he  men- 
tioned the  application  tome.  But  Louisa  saw 
her,  I  have  no  doubt,  in  Mrs.  Gradgrind's 
presence." 

"Pray,  Mrs.  Gradgrind,"  said  Bounderby, 
"what  passed?" 

"Oh,  my  poor  health!"  returned  Mrs.  Grnd- 
grind.  "The  girl  wanted  to  come  to  the  school. 
and  Mr.  Gradgrind  wanted  girls  to  come  to  the 
school,  and  Louisa  and  Thomas  both  said  that 
the  girl  wanted  to  come,  and,  that  Mr.  Grad- 
grind wanted  girls  to  come,  and  how  was  it 
possible  to  contradict  them  when  such  was  the 
fact!" 

"Now  I  tell  you  what,  Gradgrind!"  said  Mr. 
Bounderby.  "Turn  this  girl  to  the  right-about, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"I  am  much  of  your  opinion." 

"Do  it  at  once,"  said  Bounderby,  "has  al- 
ways been  my  motto  from  a  child.  When  I 
thought  I  would  run  away  from  my  egg-box 
and  my  grandmother,  I  did  it  at  once.  Do 
you  the  same.     Do  this  at  once  !" 

"Are  you  walking?"  asked  his  friend.  "I 
have  the  father's  address.  Perhaps  you  would 
not  mind  walkin  '  to  town  with  me  ?" 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  said  Mr.  Boun- 
derby, "as  long  as  you  do  it  at  once  !" 

So,  Mr.  Bounderby  threw  on  his  hat — he 
always  threw  it  on,  as  expressing  a  man  who 
had  been  far  too  busily  employed  in  making 
himself,  to  acquire  any  fashion  of  wearing  his 
hat — and  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  saun- 
tered out  into  the  hall.  "I  never  wear  gloves," 
it  was  his  custom  to  say.  "I  didn't  climb  up 
the  ladder  in  them.  Shouldn't  be  so  high  up, 
if  I  had." 

Being  left  to  saunter  in  the  hall  a  minute 
or  two  while  Mr.  Gradgrind  went  up  stairs 
for  the  address,  he  opened  the  door  of  the 
children's  study  and  looked  into  that  serene 
floor  clothed  apartment,  which,  notwithstanfl- 
ing  its  book-cases,  and  its  cabinets,  and  its 
variety  of  learned  and  philosophical  appli- 
ances, had  much  of  the  genial  asjjcct  of  a 
room  devoted  to  hair-cutting.  Louisa  lan- 
guidly leaned  upon  the   window,  looking  out. 


90 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


without  looking  at  .any  thing,  while  young 
Thomas  stood  sniffling  revengefully  at  the  fire. 
Adam  Smith  and  Malthus,  two  younger  Grad- 
griuds,  were  out  at  a  lecture  in  custody;  and 
little  Jane,  after  manufacturing  a  good  deal  of 
moist  pipe-clay  on  ber  face  with  slate  pencil 
and  tears,  had  fallen  asleep  over  vulgar  frac- 
tions. 

"It's  all  right  now,  Louisa;  it's  all  right, 
young  Thomas,"  said  Mr.  Bouaderby;  "you 
won't  do  so  any  more.  I'll  answer  for  it's  be- 
ing all  over  with  falTier.  Well,  Louisa,  that's 
worth  a  kiss,  isn't  it?" 

"You  can  take  one,  Mr,  Bounderby,"  re- 
turned Louisa,  when  she  had  coldly  paused, 
and  slowly  walked  across  the  room,  and  un- 
graciously raised  her  cheek  towards  him,  with 
her  face  turned  away. 

"Always  my  pet;  ain't  you,  Louisa?"  said 
Mr.  Bounderby.     "Good  bye,  Louisa!" 

He  went  his  way,  but  she  stood  on  the  same 
spot,  rubbing  the  cheek  he  had  kissed,  with 
her  handkerchief,  until  it  was  burning  red. 
She  was  still  doing  this,  five  minutes  after- 
wards. 

"What  are  you  about.  Loo?"  her  brother 
sulkily  remonstrated.  "You'll  rub  a  hole  in 
your  face." 

"You  may  cut  the  piece  out  with  your  pen- 
knife if  you  like,  Tom.    I  wouldn't  cry!" 


CHAPTER  V. 

Coketown,  to  which  Messrs.  Bounderby  and 
Gradgrind  now  walked,  was  a  triumph  of 
fact;  it  had  no  greater  taint  of  fancy  in  it 
than  Mrs.  Gradgrind  herself.  Let  us  strike 
the  key-note,  Coketown,  before  pursuing  our 
tune. 

It  was  a  town  of  red  brick,  or  of  brick  that 
would  have  been  red  if  the  smoke  and  ashes 
had  allowed  it;  but,  as  matters  stood,  it  was  a 
town  of  unnatural  red  and  black  like  the 
painted  face  of  a  savage.  It  was  a  town  of 
machin  ry  and  tall  chimneys,  out  of  which 
interminable  «erppnts  of  .smoke  trailed  them- 
selves for  ever  and  ever,  and  never  got 
uncoiled.  It  had  a  black  canal  in  it,  and 
a  river  that  ran  purple  with  ill-smelling  dye, 
and  vast  piles  of  building  full  of  windows 
where  there  was  a  rattling  and  a  trembling  all 
day  long,  and  where  the  piston  of  the  steam 
engine  worked  monotonously  up  and  down, 
like  the  head  of  an  elephant  in  a  state  of  me- 
lancholy macness.  It  contained  several  large 
streets  all  very  like  one  another,  and  many 
small  streets  still  more  like  one  another,  in- 
habited by  people  equally  like  one  another, 
who  all  went  in  and  out  at  the  same  hours, 
with  the  same  sound  upon  the  same  pavements, 
to  do  the  same  work,  and  to  whom  every  day 
was  the  same  as  yesterday  and  te-raorrow, 
and  every  year  the  counterpart  of  the  last  and 
the  next. 

These  attributes  of  Coketown  were  in  the 
main  inseparable  from  the  work  by  which  it 
was  sustained;  against  them  were  to  be  set  otf, 


comforts  of  life  which  found  their  way  all  over 
the  world,  and  elegances  of  life  which  made 
we  will  not  ask  how  much  of  the  fine  lady, 
who  could  scarcely  bear  to  hear  the  place  men- 
tioned. The  rest  of  its  features  were  volun- 
tary, and  they  were  these. 

You  saw  nothing  in  Coketown  but  what 
was  severely  useful.  If  the  members  of  a 
religious  persuasion  built  a  chapel  there-  • 
as  the  members  of  eighteen  religious  per- 
suasions had  done — they  made  it  a  pious 
warehouse,  of  red  brick,  with  sometimes  (but 
this  only  in  highly  ornamented  examples)  a 
bell  in  a  birdcage  on  the  top  of  it.  The 
solitary  exception  was  the  New  Church;  a 
stuccoed  edifice  with  a  square  steeple  over 
the  door,  terminating  in  four  stunted  pin- 
nacles like  florid  wooden  legs.  All  the 
public  inscriptions  in  the  town  were  painted 
alike,  in  severe  characters  of  black  and  white. 
The  jail  might  have  been  the  infirmary,  the 
infirmary  might  have  been  the  jail,  the  town- 
hall  might  have  been  either,  or  both,  or 
anything  else,  for  anything  that  appeared 
to  the  contrary  in  the  graces  of  their  con- 
struction. Fact,  fact,  fact,  everywhere  in 
the  material  aspect  of  the  town ;  fact, 
fact,  fact,  everywhere  in  the  immaterial. — 
The  M'Choakumchild  school  was  all  fact,  and 
the  school  of  design  was  all  fiict,  and  the 
relations  between  master  and  man  were  all 
fact,  and  everything  was  fact  between  the 
lying-in  hospital  and  the  cemetery,  and  what 
you  couldn't  state  in  figures,  or  show  to  be 
purchasable  in  the  cheapest  market  and 
saleable  in  the  dearest,  was  not,  and  never 
should  be,  world  without  end.  Amen. 

A  town  so  sacred  to  fact,  and  so  triumphant 
in  its  assertion,  of  course  got  on  well?  Why 
no,  not  quite  well.     No?     Dear  mel 

No.  Coketown  did  not  come  out  of  its 
own  furnaces,  in  all  respects  like  gold  that 
had  stood  the  fire.  First,  the  perplexing 
mystery  of  the  place  was,  Who  belonged  to 
the  eighteen  denominations?  Because,  who- 
ever did,  the  laboring  people  did  not.  It  was 
very  strange  to  walk  through  the  streets  on 
a  Sunday  morning,  and  note  how  few  of  them 
the  barbarous  jangling  of  bells  that  was  driv- 
ing the  sick  and  nervous  mad,  called  away 
from  their  own  quarter,  from  their  own  close 
rooms,  from  the  corners  of  their  own  streets, 
where  they  lounged  listlessly,  gazing  at  all  the 
church  and  chapel  going,  as  at  a  thing  with 
which  they  had  no  manner  of  concern.  Nor 
was  it  merely  the  stranger  who  noticed 
this,  because  there  was  a  native  organization 
in  Coketown  itself,  whose  members  were  to  be 
heard  of  in  the  House  of  Commons  every  session 
indignantly  petitioning  for  acts  of  parliament 
that  should  make  these  people  religious  by 
main  force.  Then,  came  the  Teetotal  Society, 
who  complained  that  these  same  people  would 
get  drunk,  and  showed  in  tabular  statements 
that  they  did  get  drunk,  and  proved  at  tea 
parties  that  no  inducement,  human  or  Divine 
(except  a  medal,)  would  induce  them  to  forego 


HARD  TIMES. 


91 


tteir  ciistom  of  getting  drunk.  Then,  came 
the  chemist  and  druggist,  with  other  tabular 
statemeuts,  showing  that  when  they  didn't 
get  drunk,  they  took  opium.  Then,  came  the 
experienced  chaplain  of  the  jail,  with  more 
tabular  statements,  confirming  all  the  pre- 
vious tabular  statements,  and  showing  that 
the  same  people  ivotild  resort  to  low  haunts, 
hidden  from  the  public  eye,  where  they  heard 
low  singing  and  saw  low  dancing,  and  mayhap 
joined  in  it;  and  where  A.  B.,  aged  twenty- 
four  next  birth-day,  and  committed  tor  eighteen 
months'  solitary,  had  himself  said  (not  that 
he  had  ever  shown  himself  particularly 
worthy  of  belief)  his  ruin  began,  as  he 
was  perfectly  sure  and  confident  that  other- 
wise he  would  have  been  a  tip-top  moral 
specimen.  Then,  came  Mr.  Gradgrmd  and 
Mr.  Bounderby,  the  two  gentlemen  at  this 
present  moment  walking  through  Coketown, 
and  both  eminently  practical,  who  could, 
ou  occasion,  furnish  more  tabular  state 
ments  derived  from  their  own  personal 
experience,  and  illustrated  by  cases  they  had 
known  and  seen,  from  which  it  clearly 
appeared — in  short  it  was  the  only  clear 
thing  in  the  case — that  these  sime  people 
were  a  bad  lot  altogether,  gentlemen;  that 
do  what  you  would  for  them  they  were  never 
thankful  lor  it,  gentlemen;  that  they  were 
restless,  gentlemen ;  that  they  never  knew 
what  they  wanted;  that  they  lived  upon  the 
best,  and  bought  fresh  butter,  and  insisted  on 
Mocha  coffee,  and  rejected  all  but  prime  parts 
of  meat,  and  yet  were  eternally  dissatisfied 
and  unmanageable.  In  short,  it  wasthe  moral 
of  the  old  nursery  fable : 

There  was  an  old  woman,  and  what  do  you  think  ? 
She  lived  upon  nothin;^  but  victuals  and  drink  ; 
Victuals  and  drink  were  the  whole  of  her  diet, 
And  yet  this  old  woman  would  never  be  quiet. 

Is  it  possible,  I  wonder,  that  there  was 
any  analogy  between  the  case  of  the  Coketown 
population  and  the  case  of  the  little  Grad- 
grinds?  Surely,  none  of  us  in  our  sober 
senses  and  acquainted  with  figures,  are  to  be 
told  at  this  time  of  day  that  one  of  the 
foremost  elements  in  the  existence  of  the  Coke- 
town working  people  had  been  for  scores  of 
years  delibrately  set  at  naught?  That  there 
was  any  Fancy  in  them  demanding  to  be 
brought  into  healthy  existence  instead  of  strug- 
gling on  in  convulsions?  That  exactly  in  the 
ratio  as  they  worked  long  and  monotonously, 
the  craving  grew  within  them  for  some  physi- 
cal relief — some  relaxation,  encouraging  good 
humor  and  good  spirits,  and  giving  them  a  vent 
— some  holiday,  though  it  were  but  for  an 
honest  dance  to  a  stirring  band  of  music 
— some  occasional  light  pie  in  which  even 
M'Choakumchild  had  no  finger — which  craving 
must  and  would  be  satisfied  aright,  or  must  and 
would  inevitably  go  wrong,  until  the  laws  of  the 
Creation  were  repealed? 

"This  man  lives  at  Pod's  End,  and  I  don't 
quite  know  Pod's  End,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
"Which  is  it,  Bounderby?" 


Mr.  Bounderby  know  it  was  somewhere 
down  town,  but  knew  no  more  respecting  it. 
So  they  stopped  for  a  moment,   looking  about. 

Almost  as  they  did  so,  there  came  running 
round  the  corner  of  the  street,  at  a  tpiick  pacf, 
and  with  a  frightened  look,  a  trir!  whom  Mr. 
GradL-'rind  recognised.  "Halloa!"  said  he. 
''Stop!  Where  are  you  going?  Stop!"  Girl 
number  twenty  stojjped  then,  palpitating,  and 
madi>  him  a  curtsey. 

"Why  are  vou  tpaiu<r  about  the  streets." 
said  Mr.  Gradgrinil,  "  in  this  improper  man- 
ner?" 

"I  was — I  was  run  after,  sir,"  the  girl  pant- 
ed, "and  I  wanted  to  get  away." 

"Run  after?"  repeated  Mr.  Gradgrind. — 
"Who  would  run  after //oi/.?" 

The  question  was  unexpectedly  and  sud- 
denly answered  for  her,  by  the  colorless  boy, 
Bitzer,  who  came  round  the  corner  with  such 
blind  speed  and  so  little  anticipating  a  stop- 
page on  the  pavement,  that  he  brought  himself 
up  against  Mr.  Gradgrind's  waistcoat,  and  re- 
bounded into  the  road. 

"What  do  you  mean,  boy?"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind. "What  are  you  doing?  How  dare 
you  dash  against — everybody — in  this  man- 
ner?" 

Bitzer  picked  up  his  cap,  which  the  con- 
cussion had  knocked  oS",  and  backing,  and 
knuckling  his  forehead,  pleaded  that  it  was  an 
accident. 

"Was  this  boy  running  after  you,  Jupe?" 
asked  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  girl  reluctantly. 

'No,  I  wasn't,  sir!"  cried  Bitzer.  "Not  till 
she  run  away  from  me.  But  the  horse  riders 
never  mind  what  they  say,  sir;  they're  famous 
for  it.  You  know  the  horse-riders  ar?  famous 
for  never  minding  what  they  say,"  addressing 
Sissy.  "It's  as  well  known  in  the  town  as — 
please,  sir,  as  the  multiplication  table  isn't 
known  to  the  horse-riders."  Bitzer  tried  Mr. 
Bounderby  with  this. 

"He  frightened  me  so,"  said  the  girl,  "with 
his  cruel  faces  !" 

"Oh!"  cried  Bitzer.  "Oh  I  An't  you  one  of 
the  rest?  An't  you  a  horse-rider?  I  never  look- 
ed at  her,  sir.  I  asked  her  if  she  would  know 
how  to  define  a  horse  to-morrow,  and  offered 
to  tell  her  again,  and  she  ran  away,  and  I  ran 
after  her,  sir,  that  she  might  know  how  to 
answer  when  she  was  asked.  You  wouldn't 
have  thought  of  saying  such  mischief  if  you 
hadn't  been  a  horse-rider!" 

"Her  calling  seems  to  be  pretty  well  known 
among  'em,"  observed  Mr.  Bounderby.  "You'd 
have  had  the  whole  school  peeping  in  a  row, 
in  a  week." 

"Truly,  I  think  so,"  returned  his  friend. 
"Bitzer,  turn  you  about  and  take  yourself 
home.  Jupe,  stay  here  a  moment.  Let  me 
hear  of  your  running  in  this  manner  any  more, 
boy,  and  you  will  hear  of  mo  through  the  mas- 
ter of  the  school.  You  understand  what  1 
mean.     Go  along." 

The   boy   stopped  in  his    rapid  blinking, 


V2 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


knuckled  his  forehead  again,  glanced  at  Sissy, 
turned  about,  and  retreated. 

"Now,  girl,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "take  this 
gentleman  and  me  to  your  father's;  we  are 
going  there.  What  have  you  got  in  that  bot- 
tle you  are  carrying?" 

"Gin  ?''  said  Mr.  Bounderby. 

"Dear,  no  sir!     It's  the  nine  oils." 

"The  what?"  cried  Mr.  Bounder'oy. 

"The  nine  oils,  sir.     To   rub   iather  with." 

Then,  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  with  a  loud,  short 
laugh,  '-what  the  devil  do  you  rub  your  lather 
•with  nine  oils  for?" 

"It's  what  our  people  always  use,  sir,  when 
they  get  auy  hurts  in  the  ring,"  replied  the 
girl,  looking  over  her  shoulder,  to  assure  her- 
self that  her  pursuer  was  gone.  "  They  bruise 
themselves  very  bad  sometimes." 

"  Serve  'era  right,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
"  for  being  idle."  She  glanced  up  at  his  face 
with  mingled  astonishment  and  dread. 

"  By  George  I"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  *'  when 
T  was  four  or  five  years  younger  than  you,  I 
had  worse  bruises  upon  me  than  ten  oils, 
twenty  oils,  forty  oils,  would  have  rubbed  off. 
I  didn't  get  'em  by  posture  making,  but  by 
being  banged  about.  There  was  no  rope-dan- 
cing for  me  ;  I  danced  on  the  bare  ground  and 
was  larruped  with  the  rope." 

Mr.  Gradgrind,  though  hard  enough,  was 
by  no  means  so  rough  a  man  as  Mr.  Boun- 
derby. His  character  was  not  unkind,  all 
things  considered  ;  it  might  have  been  a  posl- 
tivelykindoneindeed  ifhe  had  only  madea  good 
round  mistake  in  the  arithmetic  that  balanced 
it,  years  ago.  H^e  said,  in  what  he  meant 
for  a  re-assuring  tone,  as  they  t  irned  down  a 
narrow  road,  "And  this  is  Pod's  End;  is  it, 
Jupe  ?" 

"This  is  it,  sir,  and — if  you  wouldn't  mind, 
sir — this  is  the  house." 

She  stopped,  at  twilight,  at  the  door  of  a 
mean  little  public  house,  with  dim  red 
lights  in  it.  As  haggard  and  as  shabby,  as  if, 
for  want  of  custom,  it  had  itself  taken  to  drink- 
ing, and  had  gone  the  way  all  drunkards  go, 
and  was  very  near  the  end  of  it. 

"It's  only  crossing  the  bar,  sir,  and  up  the 
stairs,  if  you  wouldn't  mind,  and  waiting  there 
for  a  moment  till  I  get  a  candle.  If  you  should 
hear  a  dog,  sir,  it's  only  Merrylegs,  and  he 
only  barks." 

"Merrylegs  and  nine  oils,  eh!"  said  Mr. 
Bounderby,  entering  last  with  his  metallic 
laugh.  "Pretty  well  this,  for  a  self  made  man!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  name  o*   the  public  hoube  was    the 

Pegasus's  Arms.  1  h  ■.  Pegasus's  legs  mighi 
have  been  mjie  to  the  purpose:  but,  under- 
neath the  wjif<e  I  hjrse  upou  the  sign-board, 
the  Pegasus's  Am  s  vas  i  scribed  iu  Roman 
letters.  Beneath  iha'  inscrip  ion  again,  in  a 
flowing  scioU^  ilie  painter  bad  touched  off  the 
lines: 


Good  malt  makes  good  beer, 
Walk  in,  ainl  thej'il  draw  it  here, 
Good  wine- makes  good  brandy, 
Give  us  a  call,  and  you'll  find  it  handy. 

Framed  and  glaz  d  upon  the  wall  behind 
the  dinj/\  little  bar,  was  anoiher  Pepasus — a 
theatrical  one — with  real  gauze  let  in  fur  his 
wings,  golden  stars  stuck  on  all  over  him,  and 
his  ethereal  harness  made  of  red  silk. 

As  it  had  grown  too  dusky  without,  to  see 
the  sign^  and  as  it  had  not  grown  light  enough 
vviihiu  to  see  the  picture,  Mr.  Gradgriud  and 
Mr.  Bounderby  received  no  offence  f'rcjm  these 
idealities.  They  followed  the  girl  up  some 
steep  corner-stairs  without  meeting  any  one, 
and  stopped  iu  the  dark  while  she  went  on 
for  a  caudle.  They  expected  every  moment 
to  hear  Merrylegs  give  tongue,  but  the  highly- 
trained  performing  dog  had  not  barked  when 
the  girl  and  the  candle  appeared  together. 

"Father  is  not  in  our  room,  sir,"  she  said, 
with  a  face  of  great  surprise,  "if  you  wouldn't 
mind  walking  in,  I'll  find  him  directly." 

They  walked  in;  and  Sissy,  having  set  two 
chairs  for  them,  sped  away  with  a  quick  light 
step.  It  was  a  mean,  shabbily  furnished 
room,  ynth  a  bed  in  it.  The  white  nightcap, 
embQllished  with  two  peacock's  feathers  and 
a  pigtail  bolt  upright,  in  which  Signer  Jupe 
had  that  very  afternoon  eulivened  the  varied 
performances  with  his  chaste  Shaksperian 
quips  and  retorts,  hung  upon  a  nail;  but  no 
other  portion  of  his  wardrobe,  or  other  token 
of  himself  or  his  pursuits,  was  to  be  seen  any- 
where. As  to  Merrylegs,  that  respectable 
ancestor  of  the  highly-trained  animal,  who 
went  aboard  the  ark,  might  have  been  acci- 
dentally shut  out  of  it,  for  any  sign  of  a  dog 
that  was  manifest  to  eye  or  ear  in  the  Pegasus'a 
Arms. 

They  heard  the  doors  of  rooms  above, 
opening  and  shutting  as  Sissy  went  from  one 
to  another  in  quest  of  her  father;  and  presently 
they  heard  voices  expressing  surprise.  She 
came  bounding  down  again  in  a  great  hurry, 
opened  a  battered  and  mangey  old4iair-trunk, 
found  it  empty,  and  looked  round  with  her 
hands  clasped  and  her  face  full  of  terror. 

"Father  must  have  gone  down  to  the  Booth, 
sir.  I  don't  know  why  he  should  go  there, 
but  he  must  be  there ;  I'll  bring  him  in  a 
minute  !"'  She  was  gone  directly,  without  her 
bonnet;  with  h^r  longr,  dark,  childish  hair 
strentnlu-^^  behind  her. 

"What  does  she  mean!"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind. "Back  in  a  minute  ?  It's  more  than  a 
mile  off." 

Before  Mr.  Bounderby  could  reply,  a  young 
man  appeared  at  the  door,  and  introducing 
himself  with  the  words,  "By  your  leaves,  gen- 
tlemen !''  walked  in  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  His  face,  close-shaven,  thin,  and 
sallow,  was  shaded  by  a  great  quantity  of  dark 
hair  brushed  into  a  roll  all  round  his  head, 
and  parted  up  the  centre.  His  legs  were  very 
robust,  but  shorter  than  legs  of  good  propor- 
tions should  have  been.     His  chest  and  back 


HARD  TIMES. 


93 


were  as  much  too  broad,  as  his  legs  were  too 
short.  He  was  dressed  in  a  Newmarket  coat 
and  tight-titting  trousers;  wore  a  shawl  round 
his  neck;  smelt  of  lamp-oil,  straw,  orunge-peel, 
horses'  provender,  and  sawdust;  and  iocjked  a 
mo.st  remarkable  sort  of  Centaur,  com]iounded 
of  the  stable  and  the  playdiouse.  Wliere  the 
one  began,  and  the  other  ended,  nobody  could 
have  told  witii  any  precision.  This  gentleman 
was  mentioned  in  the  bills  of  the  day  as  Mr.  E. 
\V.  B.  Childers,  so  justly  celebrated  for  his 
daring  vatiltiug  act  as  the  Wild  Huntsman  of 
the  North  American  Prairies;  in  which  popular 
performance,  a  diminutive  boy  witli  an  old 
face,  who  now  accompanied  him,  assisted  as 
his  infant  son :  being  carried  upside  down 
over  his  father's  shoulder,  by  one  foot,  and 
held  by  the  crown  of  his  head,  heels  upwards, 
iu  the  palm  of  his  father's  hand,  according 
to  the  violent  paternal  manner  in  which 
wild  huntsmen  may  be  observed  to  lun- 
dle  their  offspring.  Made  up  with  curls, 
wreaths,  wings,  white  bismuth,  and  carmine, 
this  hopeful  young  person  soared  into  so 
pleasing  a  Cupid  as  to  constitute  the  chief 
delight  of  the  maternal  part  of  the  spectators; 
but,  in  private,  where  his  characteristics  were 
a  precocious  cutaway  coat  and  an  extremely 
grutf  voice,  he  became  of  the  Turf,  turfy. 

"By  your  leaves,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  E. 
W.  B.  Childers,  glancing  round  the  room.  "It 
was  you,  1  believe,  that  were  wishing  to  see 
J  upe  ?" 

"It  was,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "His  daughter 
has  gone  to  fetch  him,  but  J  can't  wait ;  there- 
fore, if  you  please,  1  will  leave  a  message  for 
him  with  you." 

"You  see,  my  friend,"  Mr.  Bounderby  put 
iu,  "we  are  the  kind  of  people  who  know  the 
value  of  time,  and  you  are  the  kind  of  people 
who  don't  know  the  value  of  time." 

"I  have  not,"  retorted  Mr.  Childers,  after 
surveying  him  from  head  to  foot,  "the  honor 
of  knowing  you; — but  if  you  mean  that  you 
can  make  more  money  of  your  time  than  T  can 
of  mine,  1  should  judge  from  your  appearance, 
that  you  are  about  right." 

"And  when  you  have  made  it,  you  can  keep 
it  too,  I  should  think,"  said  Cupid. 

"Kidderminster,  stow  that  !"  said  Mr. 
Chililers.  (Master  Kidderminster  was  Cupid's 
mortal  name.) 

"Whai  does  he  come  here  cheeking  us  for, 
then  ?"  cried  Master  Kidderminster,  showing 
a  very  irascible  temperament.  "If  you  want 
to  cheek  us,  pay  your  ochre  at  the  doors  and 
take  it  out." 

"Kidderminster,"  said  Mr.  Childers,  raising 
his  voice,  "stow  that  I — Sir,"  to  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
"1  was  addressing  myself  to  you.  You  may 
or  you  may  not  be  aware  (for  perhaps  you 
have  not  been  much  in  the  audience),  that 
J  upe  has  missed  his  tip  very  often,  lately." 

"  Has — what  has  he  missed  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Gradgrind,  glancing  at  the  potent-  Bounderby 
for  assistance. 

"  Missed  his  tip." 


"Offered  at  the  Garters  four  times  last 
night,  and  never  done  'em  once,"  said  Master 
Kidderminster.  "Missed  his  tip  at  the  banners, 
too,  arul  was  loose  in  his  ponging." 

"  I'idn't  do  what  he  ought  to  do.  Was 
shnrt  in  his  leaps  and  bad  in  his  tumbling," 
Mr.  Childers  interpreted. 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "that  is  tip,  is 

\vr 

"  In  a  general  way  that's  missing  his  tip," 
Mr.  E.  W.  li.  Childers  answered. 

"  Nine-oils,  Merrylegs,  missing  tips,  garters, 
banners,  and  Ponging,  eh!"  ejaculated 
B(nuiderby  with  his  laugh  of  laughs.  "Queer 
sort  of  company  too,  for  a  man  who  has  raised 
himself." 

"  Lower  yourself,  then,"  retorted  Cupid. 
"  Oh  Lord  !  If  you've  raised  youTself  so  high 
as  all  that  comes  to,  let  yourself  down  a  bit." 

"This  is  a  very  obtrusive  lad!"  said  Mr. 
Gradgrind,  turning,  and  knitting  his  brows  on 
him. 

"  We'd  have  had  a  young  gentleman  to 
meet  you,  if  we  had  known  you  were  coming," 
retorted  Master  Kiuderminster,  nothing 
abashed.  "  It's  a  pity  you  don't  have  a  be- 
speak, being  so  particular.  You're  on  tlie 
Tight- Jeff,  ain't  you  ?'' 

"  What  does  this  unmannerly  boy  mean," 
asked  Mr.  Gradgi'ind,  eyeing  him  iuasort  of 
desperation,  "by  'light- Jeff?" 

"  There  I  Get  out,  get  out !"  said  Mr. 
Childers,  thrusting  his  young  friend  Ir.mi  the 
room,  rather  in  the  prairie  manner.  "Tight- 
Jeff  or  Slack-Jeff,  it  don't  much  signify;  it's 
ordy  tight  rope  and  slack-rope.  You  wer<5 
going  to  give  me  a  message  for  Jupe  ?" 

"  Yes,  1  was." 

"Ttion,"  continued  Mr.  Childers,  quicklv, 
"my  opinion  is,  he  will  never  receive  it.  L>o 
you  know  much  of  him?" 

"I  never  saw  the  man  in  my  life." 

"  1  doubt  if  you  ever  xvill  see  him  now.  It's 
pretty  plain  to  me,  he  is  off." 

"  Uo  you  mean  that  he  has  deserted  his 
daughter  ?" 

"  Ay  I  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Childers,  with  a 
nod,  "  that  he  has  cut.  He  was  goosed  last 
night,  he  was  goosed  the  night  before  last,  he 
was  goosed  to-day.  He  has  lately  got  in  the 
way  of  being  always  goosed,  and  he  can't 
stand  it." 

"  Why  has  he  been — so  very  much — Goosed?" 
asked  Mr.  Gradgrind,  forcing  the  word  out  of 
himself,  with  great  solemnity  and  reluctance 

"  His  joints  are  turning  stiff,  and  lie  is 
getting  used  up,"  said  Childers.  "That's  about 
the  size  of  it.  He  has  his  points  as  a  Cacklcr 
still,  but  he  can't  get  a  living  out  of  them." 

"A  Cackler  ?"  Bounderby  repeated.  "Here 
we  go  again  1" 

"A  speaker,  if  the  gentleman  likes  it  better," 
said  Mr.  E.  W.  B.  Childers,  superciliously 
throwing  the  interpretation  over  his  shoulder, 
and  accompanying  it  with  a  shake  of  his  long 
hair — which  all  shook  at  once.  "Now,  it's  a 
remarkable  fact,  sir,  that  it  cut  that  mau  deep 


94 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


er,  to  know  that  his  dauirhter  knew  of  his 
beinjf  goosed,  than  to  jro  throuj^di  wiih  it.'" 

"(iood!"  interrupted  Mr.  Bounderhy.  "This 
is  good,  Grad^'rind!  A  man  so  fund  of  ins 
daughter,  that  he  runs  away  from  her!  Tliis 
is  devilish  goodl  Ha!  lia  !  Now,  I'll  tell  you 
what,  young  man.  I  haven't  always  occupied 
my  present  station  of  life.  I  kuoA-  what  the.'^e 
things  are  You  may  be  astonished  to  hear 
it,  but  my  mother  ran  a   ay  from  i/(e." 

E.  W.  B.  Childers  replied  pointedly,  that  he 
was  not  at  all  astonished  to  hear  it. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Bounderby.  "  I  was 
born  in  a  ditch,  and  my  mother  ran  away 
from  me.  Do  I  excuse  her  for  it?  No.  Have 
I  ever  excused  her  for  it?  Not  I.  What  do 
I  call  her  for  it?  I  call  her  probably  the  very 
worst  woman  that  ever  lived  in  the  world, 
except  my  drunken  grandmother.  There's 
no  family  pride  about  me,  there's  uo  imagina- 
tive sentimental  humbug  about  me.  I  call  a 
spade  a  spade;  and  I  call  the  mother  of  Josiah 
Bounderby  of  Coketown,  without  any  fear  or 
any  favor,  what  I  should  call  her  if  she  had 
been  the  mother  of  Dick  Jones  of  VVapping. 
So,  with  this  man.  He  is  a  runaway  rogue 
and  a  vagabond,  that's  what  he  is,  in  English." 

"  It's  all  the  same  to  me  what  he  is  or 
what  he  is  not,  whether  in  English  or 
whether  in  French,"  retorted  Mr.  E.  W. 
B.  Childers,  facin/  about.  "  I  am  telling 
your  friend  what's  the  fact ;  if  you  don't 
like  to  hear  it,  you  can  avail  yourself  of 
the  open  air.  You  give  it  mouth  enough, 
you  do  ;  but  give  it  mouth  in  your  own 
building  at  least,"  remonstrated  E.  W.  B. 
willi  stern  irony.  "Don't  give  it  mouth 
in  this  building,  till  you're  called  upon. 
You  have  got  some  building  of  your  own, 
1  dare  say,  now?'' 

"  Perhaps  so,"  replied  Mr.  Bounderby, 
r.ittling  his  money  and  laughing. 

"  Then  give  it  mouth  in  your  own  building, 
will  you;  if  you  please  ?"  said  Childers. 
"  Because  this  isn't  a  strong  building,  and 
too  much  of  you  might  bring  it  down  I" 

Eyeing  Mr.  Bounderby  from  head  to  foot 
airain,  he  turned  from  him,  as  from  a  man 
finally  disposed  of,  to  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"  Jupe  sent  his  daughter  out  on  an  errand 
not  an  hour  ago,  and  then  was  seen  to  slip 
out  himself,  with  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and  a 
bundle  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief  under  his  arm. 
She  will  never  believe  it  of  him;  buc  he  has  cut 
away  and  left  her." 

"Pfay,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "why  will  she 
never  believe  it  of  him?" 

"Becaiise  those  two  were  one.  Because  they 
were  uever  asunder.  Because,  up  to  this  time, 
he  seemed  to  dote  upon  her,"  said  Childers, 
taking  a  step  or  two  to  look  into  the  empty 
trunk.  Both  Mr.  Childers  and  Master  Kidder- 
minster walked  in  a  curious  manner;  with  their 
legs  wider  apart  than  the  general  run  of  men, 
and  with  a  very  knowing  assumption  of  being 
BtifFin  the  knees.  This  walk  was  common  to 
fill  the  male  members  of  bleary's  company,  and 


was  understood  to  pxpress,  that  they  were  al- 
ways on  horseback. 

'•l*oor  Sissy!  He  had  better  have  apprenticed 
her,"  said  Childers,  giving  his  hair  another 
shake,  as  he  looked  up  from  the  empty  hox. 
"Now,  he  leaves  her  without  anything  to  take 
to." 

"It  is  creditable  to  you  who  have  never  been 
apprenticed,  to  express  that  opinion,"  returned 
Mr.  Gradgrind,  appruvingly. 

"/  never  apprenticed  ?  I  was  apprenticed 
when  I  was  seven  year  old.  Did  the  canvass, 
mure  or  less,  every  day  of  my  life,  till  I  was 
out  of  my  time,"  said  Childers.  Seeing  Mr. 
Gradgrind  at  a  loss,  he  explained  very  clearly 
by  circular  muiion  of  his  hand,  and  by  the 
rapid  interjections,  "Hi!  hi!  hi!"  uttered  as 
stimulants  to  a  suppositious  horse,  that  doing 
the  canvass  was  synonymous  with  riding  round 
the  ring. 

*'Uh  i  You  mean  that?'  said  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
rather  resentfully,  as  having  been  defrauded 
of  his  good  opinion.  "I  was  not  aware  of  its 
being  the  custom  to  apprentice  young  persons 
to " 

"  Idleness,"  Mr.  Bounderby  put  in  with  a 
loud  laugh.     "No,  by  the  Lord  Harry  1  Nor  I  i" 

"  Her  father  always  had  it  in  his  head, " 
resumed  Childers,  feignnig  unconsciousness 
of  Mr.  Bounderby's  existence,  "that  she  was 
to  be  taught  the  deuce-and-all  of  education. 
How  it  got  into  his  head,  I  can't  say ;  1  can 
only  say  that  it  never  got  out.  He  has  been 
picking  up  a  bit  of  reading  for  her,  here — and 
a  bit  of  writing  for  her,  there — and  a  bit  of 
cyphering  for  her,  somewhere  else — these 
seven  years.  If  she  had  been  apprenticed,  she 
would  have  been  doing  the  garlands  in  an  in- 
dependent way  by  this  time." 

Mr.  E.  W.  Childers  took  one  of  his  hands 
out  of  his  pockets,  stroked  his  face  and  chin, 
and  looked,  with  a  good  deal  of  doubt  and  a 
little  hope,  at  Mr.  Gradgrind.  From  the  first 
he  had  sought  to  conciliate  that  gentleman, 
for  the  sake  of  the  deserted  girl. 

"When  Sissy  got  into  the  school  here,"  he 
pur^ued,  "her  father  was  as  pleased  as  Punch. 
I  couldn't  altogether  make  out  why,  myself, 
as  we  were  not  stationary  here,  being  but 
comers  and  goers  anywhere.  I  suppose,  how- 
ever, he  had  this  move  in  his  mind — he  was 
always  half  cracked — and  then  considered  her 
provided  for.  If  you  should  happen  to  have 
looked  in  to-night,  for  the  purpose  of  telling 
him  that  you  were  going  to  do  her  any  little 
service,"  said  Mr.  Childers,  stroking  his  face 
again  and  repeating  his  look,  "it  would  be 
very  fortunate  and  well  timed;  vert/  fortunate 
and  well-timed." 

"On  the  contrary,"  returned  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
"I  came  to  teil  him  that  her  connexions  made 
her  not  an  object  for  the  school,  and  that  she 
must  not  attend  any  more.  Still,  if  her  father 
really  h  s  left  her,  without  any  connivance  on 
her  part — Bounderby,  let  me  have  a  word  with 
you." 

Upon  this.  Mr.  Childers  politely  betook  him- 


HARD  TIMES. 


95 


self,  with  his  equestrian  walk,  to  the  landing 
outside  the  door,  and  there  stood  stroking  his 
face  and  softly  whistling.  While  thus  enga- 
ged, he  overheard  such  phrases  in  Mr.  Bound- 
erby's  voice,  as  "No.  I  say  no.  I  advise  you 
not.  I  say  by  no  means."  While,  from  Mr. 
Gradgrind,  he  heard  in  his  much  lower  tone 
the  words,  "But  even  as  an  example  to  Louisa, 
of  what  this  pursuit  which  has  been  the  sub- 
ject of  a  vulgar  curiosity,  leads  to  and  ends  in. 
Thiak  of  it,  Bounderby,  in  that  point  of  view." 

Meanwhile,  the  various  members  of  Sleary's 
company  gradually  gathered  togrether  from 
the  upper  regions,  where  they  were  quartered, 
and,  trom  standing  about,  talking  in  low 
voices  to  one  another  and  to  Mr.  Childers, 
gradually  insinuated  themselves  and  him  into 
the  room.  There  were  two  or  three  handsome 
young  women  among  them,  with  their  two  or 
three  husbands,  and  their  two  or  three 
mothers,  and  their  eight  or  nine  little  chil- 
dren, who  did  the  fairy  business  when  requir- 
ed. The  father  of  one  of  the  families  was  in 
the  habit  of  balancing  the  father  of  another  of 
the  families  on  the  top  of  a  great  pole;  the  fa- 
ther of  a  third  family  often  made  a  pyramid 
of  both  those  fathers,  with  Master  Kidder- 
minster for  the  apex,  and  himself  for  the 
base;  all  the  fathers  could  dance  upon  roll- 
ing casks,  stand  upon  bottles,  catch  knives  and 
balls,  twirl  hand-basins,  ride  upon  anything, 
jump  over  everything,  and  stick  at  nothing. 
All  the  mothers  could  (and  did)  dance,  upon 
the  slack  wire  and  the  tight  rope,  and  perform 
rapid  acts  on  bare-backed  steeds;  none  of  them 
were  at  all  particular  in  respect  of  showing 
their  legs  ;  and  one  of  them,  alone  in  a  Greek 
chariot,  drove  six  in  hand  into  every  town 
they  came  to.  They  all  assumed  to  be  mighty 
rakish  and  knowing,  they  were  not  very  tidy 
in  their  private  dresses,  they  were  not  at  all 
orderly  in  their  domestic  arrangements,  and 
the  combined  literature  of  the  whole  company 
would  have  produced  but  a  poor  letter  on  any 
subject.  Yet  there  was  a  remarkable  gentle- 
ness and  childishness  about  these  people,  a 
special  inaptitude  for  any  kind  of  sharp 
practice,  and  an  untiring  readiness  to  help 
and  pity  one  another,  deserving,  often  of  as 
much  respect,  and  always  of  as  much  generous 
construction,  as  the  every-day  virtues  of  any 
class  of  people  in  the  world. 

Last  of  all  appeared  Mr.  Sleary ;  a  stout 
man  as  already  mentioned,  with  one  fixed  eye 
and  one  loose  eye,  a  voice  (if  it  can  be  called 
so)  like  the  efforts  of  a  broken  old  pair  of 
bellows,  a  flabby  surface,  and  a  muddled  head 
which  was  never  sober  and  never  drunk. 

"Thquirel"  said  Mr.  Sleary,  who  was  trou- 
bled with  asthma,  and  whose  breath  came  far 
too  thick  and  heavy  for  the  letter  s,  "Your 
thervant!  Thilh  ith  a  bad  piethe  of  bithnith, 
thith  ith.  You've  heard  of  my  Clown  and 
hith  dog  being  thuppolhed  to  have  morrithed?'' 

He  addressed  Mr.  Gradgrind,  who  answered 
"Yes.-' 

"Well  Thquire,"  he  returned,  taking  oflF  his 


hat,  and  rubbing  the  lining  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  which  he  kept  inside  it  for  the 
purpose.  "Ith  it  your  iutentioulh  to  do  any- 
thing for  the  poor  girl,  Thquire?" 

"I  shall  have  something  to  propose  to  her 
when  she  comes  back,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"Glad  to  hear  it,  Thquire.  Not  that  I  want 
to  get  rid  of  the  child,  any  more  than  I  want  to 
thtand  in  her  way.  I'm  willing  to  take  her 
prentith,  though  at  her  age  iih  late.  My 
voithe  ith  a  little  hulhky,  Thquire,  and  not  eat  by 
heard  by  them  ath  don't  know  me;  but  if 
you'd  been  chilled  and  heated,  heated  and 
chilled,  chilled  and  heated,  in  the  ring  when 
you  wath  young,  ath  often  ath  I  have  been, 
your  voithe  would'nt  have  lathled  out,  Thquire, 
no  more  than  mine." 

"1  dare  say  not,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"What  thall  it  be,  Thquire,  while  you  wait? 
Thall  it  be  Therry?  Give  it  a  name,  Thquire!'' 
said  Mr.  Sleary,  with  hospitable  ease. 

"Nothing  for  me,  I  thank  you,"  said  Mr. 
Gradgrind. 

"Don't  thay  nothing,  Thquire.  What  doth 
your  friend  thay?  If  you  haven't  took  your 
feed  yet,  have  a  glath  of  bitterth." 

Here  his  daughter  Josephine — a  prrtty 
fair-haired  girl  of  eighteen,  who  had  been 
tied  on  a  horse  at  two  years  old,  and  had 
made  a  will  at  twelve,  which  she  always 
carried  about  with  her,  expressive  of  her 
dying  desire  to  be  drawn  to  the  srrave  by  the 
two  piebald  ponies — cried  "  Faiht-r,  hush  I 
she  has  come  back  1"  Then  came  Sissy  Jupe, 
running  into  the  room  as  she  had  run  uui  of 
it.  And  when  she  saw  them  all  assembled, 
and  saw  their  looks,  and  saw  no  father  there, 
she  broke  into  a  most  deplorable  cry,  and  took 
refuge  on  the  bosom  of  the  most  accomplished 
tight-rope  lady  (herself  in  the  family  way,) 
who  knelt  down  on  the  floor  to  nurse  her,  and 
to  weep  over  her. 

"Ith  an  infernal  thame,  upon  my  thoul  it 
ith,"  said  Sleary. 

"  0  my  dear  father,  my  good  kind  father, 
where  are  you  gone?  You  are  gone  to  fc-y 
to  do  me  some  good,  I  know  1  You  are  go«e 
away  for  my  sake,  I  am  sure.  And  how 
miserable  and  helpless  you  will  be  without 
me,  poor,  poor  father,  until  you  come  back  !'' 
It  was  so  pathetic  to  hear  her  saying  many 
things  of  this  kind,  with  her  face  turned 
upward,  and  her  arms  stretched  out  as  if  she 
were  trying  to  stop  his  departing  shadow  and 
embrace  it,  that  no  one  spoke  a  word  until 
Mr.  Bounderby  (growing  impatient)  took  the 
case  in  hand. 

"Now,  good  people  all,"  said  he,  "this  is 
wanton  waste  of  time.  Let  the  girl  understand 
the  fact.  Let  her  take  it  from  me,  if  you  like, 
who  have  been  run  away  from,  myself.  Here, 
what 's  your  name  1  Your  father  has  abscond 
ed — deserted  you — and  you  must  n't  expect  ta 
see  hiin  again  as  long  as  you  live." 

They  cared  so  little  for  })hiin  Fuct,  these 
people,  and  were  in  that  advanced  state  of 
degeneracy  on  the  subject,  that  instead  of  be 


96 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


ing  impressed  by  the  speaker's  strong  common 
sense,  they  took  it  in  extraordinary  dudgeon. 
The  men  muttered  "Shame !"  and  the  women 
*'  Brute  1 "  and  Sleary,  in  some  haste,  commu- 
nicated the  following  hint,  apart  to  Mr.  Boun- 
derby. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Thquire.  To  thpeak  plain 
to  you,  my  opinion  ith  that  you  had  better 
cut  it  thort,  and  drop  it.  They're  a  very  good 
natiir'd  people,  my  people,  but  they're  accuth- 
tomed  to  be  quick  in  their  movementh  ;  and 
if  you  don't  act  upon  my  advithe,  I'm  damned 
if  I  don't  believe  they'll  pith  you  out  o'  the 
winder." 

Mr.  Bounderby  being  restrained  by  this  mild 
suggestion,  Mr.  Gradgrind  found  an  opening 
for  his  eminently  practical  exposition  of  the 
subject. 

"It  is  of  no  moment,"  said  he,  "whether  this 
person  is  to  be  expected  back  at  any  time,  or 
the  contrary.     He  is  gone  away,  and  there  is  no 

f)resent  expectation  of  his  return.  That,  I  be- 
leve,  is  agreed  on  all  hands." 

"Thath  agreed,  Thquire.  Thtick  to  that  I" 
From  Sleary. 

"Well  then.  I,  who  came  here  to  inform 
the  father  of  the  poor  girl,  Jupe,  that  she 
could  not  be  received  at  the  school  any  more, 
in  consequence  of  there  being  practical  objec- 
tions, into  which  I  need  not  enter,  to  the  re- 
ception there  of  the  children  of  persons  so  em- 
ployed, am  prepared  in  these  altered  circum- 
stances to  make  a  proposal.  I  am  willing  to 
take  charge  of  you,  Jupe,  and  to  educate  you, 
and  provide  for  you.  The  only  condition 
(over  and  above  your  good  behavior)  I  make 
IS,  that  you  decide  now,  at  once,  whether  to 
accompany  me  or  remain  here.  Also,  that  if 
you  accompany  me  now,  it  is  understood  that 
you  communicate  no  more  with  any  of  your 
friends,  who  are  here  present.  These  obser- 
vations comprise  the  whole  of  the  case." 

"At  the  thame  time,"  said  Sleary,  "I  mutht 
put  in  my  word,  Thquire,  tho  that  both  thides 
of  the  banner  may  be  equally  theen.  If  you 
like,  Thethilia,  to  be  preutitht,  you  know  the 
natur  of  the  work,  and  you  know  your  com- 
panionth.  Emma  Gordon,  in  whothe  lap 
you're  a  lyin'  at  prethent,  would  be  a  mother 
to  you,  and  Joth'phine  would  be  a  thithter  to 
you.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  of  the  angel  breed 
mythelf,  and  I  don't  thay  but  what,  when  you 
mith'd  your  tip,  you'd  find  me  cut  up  rough, 
and  thwear  an  oath  or  two  at  you.  but  what 
I  thay,  Thquire,  ith,  that  good  tempered  or 
bad  tempered,  1  never  did  a  horihe  a  injury 
yet,  no  more  than  thwearing  at  him  went,  and 
that  I  don't  expect  I  thall  begin  otherwithe  at 
my  time  of  litis,  with  a  rider.  I  never  wath 
muth  of  a  Cackler,  Thquire,  and  I  have  thed 
my  thay." 

The  latter  part  of  this  speech  was  addressed 
to  Mr.  Gradgrind,  who  received  it  with  a  grave 
inclination  ot)  his  head,  and  thtn  remarked: 

'The  only  observation  I  will  make  to  you, 
Jupe,  in  the  way  of  influencing  your  decision, 
ia,  that  it  is  highly  desirable  to  have  a  sound. 


practical  education,  and  that  even  your  father 
himself  (from  what  I  understand)  appears,  on 
your  behalf,  to  have  known  and  felt  that 
much." 

The  last  words  had  a  visible  effect  upon  her. 
She  stopped  in  her  wild  crying,  a  little  de- 
tached herself  from  Emma  Gordon,  and  turned 
her  face  full  upon  her  patron.  The  whole 
company  perceived  the  force  of  the  chance, 
and  drew  a  long  breath  together,  that  plainly 
said,  "she  will  go  !" 

"Be  sure  you  know  your  own  mind,  Jupe," 
Mr.  Gradgrind  cautioned  her  ;  "I  say  no  more. 
Be  sure  you  know  your  own  mind  !" 

"When  father  comes  back,"  cried  the  girl, 
bursting  into  tears  again  after  a  minute's 
silence,  "how  will  he  ever  find  me  if  I  go 
away !" 

"You  may  be  quite  at  ease,"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, calmly ;  he  worked  out  the  whole  mat- 
ter like  a  sum  ;  "you  may  be  quite  at  ease, 
Jupe,  on  that  score.  In  such  a  case,  your 
father,  I  apprehend,  must  find  out  Mr. " 

"Thleary.  Thath  my  name,  Thquire.  Not 
athamed  of  it.  Known  all  over  England,  and 
alwayth  paythe  ith  way." 

"Must  find  out  Mr.  Sleary,  who  would  then 
let  him  know  where  you  went.  I  should  have 
no  power  of  keeping  you  against  his  wish,  and 
he  would  have  no  dithculty,  at  any  time,  in 
finding  Mr.  Thomas  Gradgrind  of  Coketown. 
I  am  well  known." 

"Well  known,"  assented  Mr.  Sleary,  rolling 
his  loose  eye.  "You're  one  of  the  thort, 
Thquire,  that  keepth  a  prethious  thight  of 
money  out  of  the  houthe.  But  never  mind 
that  at  prethent." 

There  was  another  silence;  and  then  she 
exclaimed,  sobbing  with  her  hands  before  her 
face,  "Oh  give  me  my  clothes,  give  me  my 
clothes,  and  let  me  go  away  before  I  break 
my  hearti" 

The  women  sadly  bestirred  themselves  to 
get  the  clothes  together — it  was  toon  done, 
for  they  were  not  many — and  to  pack  them 
in  a  basket  which  had  often  travelled  with 
them.  Sissy  sat  all  the  time,  upon  the  ground, 
still  sobbing  and  covering  her  eyes.  Mr. 
Gradgrind  and  his  friend  Bounderby  stood 
near  the  door,  ready  to  take  her  away.  Mr. 
Sleary  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with 
the  male  members  of  the  company  about  him, 
exactly  as  he  would  have  stood  in  the  centre 
of  the  ring  dnring  his  daughter  Josephine's  per- 
formance.    He  wanted  nothing  but  his  whip. 

The  basket  packed  in  silence,  they  brought 
her  bonnet  to  her,  and  smoothed  her  disordered 
hair,  and  put  it  on.  Then  they  pressed  about 
her,  and  bent  over  her  in  very  natural  atti- 
tudes, kissing  and  embracing  her;  and  brought 
the  children  to  take  leave  of  her;  and  were  a 
tender-hearted,  simple,  foolish  set  of  women 
alt  )gether. 

"Xow,  Jupe,"  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  "if  you 
are  quite  determined,  come  !' 

But  .she  had  to  take  her  farewell  of  the  male 
part  of  the  company  yet,  and  every  one  of  them 


HARD  TIMES. 


97 


had  to  unfold  his  arms  (for  they  all  assumed 
the  professional  attitude  when  they  found  them- 
selves near  Sleary),  and  give  her  a  parting 
kiss — Master  Kidderminster  excepted,  in  whose 
young  nature  there  was  an  original  flavor  of 
the  misanthrope,  who  was  also  known  to  have 
harbored  matrimonial  views,  and  who  moodily 
withdrew.  Mr.  Sleary  was  reserved  until  the 
last.  Opening  his  arms  wide,  he  took  her  by 
both  hands,  and  would  have  sprung  her  up 
and  down,  after  the  riding-master  manner  of 
congratulating  young  ladies  on  their  dismount- 
ing from  a  rapid  act;  but  there  was  no  rebound 
iu  Sissy,  and  she  only  stood  before  him  cry- 
ing. 

"  Good  bye,  my  dear  1"  said  Sleary.  "You'll 
make  your  fortune,  I  hope,  and  none  of  our 
poor  folkth  will  ever  trouble  you,  I'll  pound  it. 
I  with  your  father  hadn't  taken  hith  dog 
with  him  ;  ith  a  ill-conwenienth  to  have  the 
dog  out  of  the  billth.  But  on  thecond 
thoughth,  he  wouldn't  have  performed  without 
hith  mathter,  tho  ith  ath  broad  ath  ith  long!" 

With  that,  he  regarded  her  attentively  with 
his  fixed  eye,  surveyed  the  company  with  the 
loose  one,  kissed  her,  shook  his  head,  and 
handed  her  to  Mr.  Gradgrind  as  to  a  horse. 

"There  the  ith,  Thquire,"  lie  said,  sweeping 
her  with  a  professional  glance  as  if  she  were 
being  adjusted  in  her  seat,  "and  the'll  do  you 
juthtithe.     Good  bye,  Thethilia!" 

"Good  bye  Cecilia!"  "Good  bye  Sissy!" 
"God  bless  you,  dear!"  In  a  variety  of  voices 
from  all  the  room. 

But  the  riding-master's  eye  had  observed  the 
bottle  of  the  nine  oils  in  her  bosom,  and 
he  now  interposed  with  "Leave  the  bottle,  my 
dear;  ith  large  to  carry;  it  will  be  of  no  uthe 
to  you  now.     Give  it  to  me!" 

"No,  no!"  she  said,  in  another  burst  of 
tears.  "Oh  no  1  Pray  let  me  keep  it  for 
father  till  he  comes  back!  He  will  want  it, 
when  he  comes  back.  He  had  never  thought 
of  going  away,  when  he  sent  me  for  it.  I 
must  keep  it  for  him,  if  you  please!" 

"Tho  be  it,  my  dear.  (You  thee  how  it 
ith,  Thquire!)  Farewell,  Thethilia!  My  latht 
wordth  to  you  ith  thith,  Thtick  to  the  termth 
of  your  engagement,  be  obedient  to  the 
Thquire,  and  forget  nth.  But  if,  when  you're 
grown  up  and  married  and  well  off,  you 
come  upon  any  horthe-riding  ever,  don't  be 
hard  upon  it,  don't  be  croth  with  it,  give  it 
a  Bethpeak  if  you  can,  and  think  you  might 
do  wurth.  People  mutht  be  amused,  Thquire, 
thomehow,  continued  Sleary,  rendered  niore 
pursy  than  ever,  by  so  much  talking  ;  "  they 
can't  be  alwayth  a  working,  nor  yet  they  can't 
be  alwayth  a  learning.  Make  the  betbt  of  uth  : 
not  the  wurtht.  I've  got  my  living  out  of  the 
horthe-riding  all  my  life,  I  know ;  but  I  con- 
thider  that  I  lay  down  the  philothophy  of  the 
thubject  when  Ithay  to  you,  Thquire,  make  the 
betht  of  uth :  not  the  wurtht !" 

The  Sleary  philosophy  was  propounded  as 
they  went  down  stairs;  and  the   fixed  eye  of 
Philosophy — and   its   rolling    eye,   too — soon 
7 


lost  the  three  figures  and  tho  basket   in  tha 
darkness  of  the  street. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Mr.  Bounderby  being  a  bachelor,  an  elderly 
lady  presided  over  his  establishment,  in  con- 
sideration of  a  certain  annual- stipend.  Mrs. 
Sparsit  was  this  lady's  name;  and  she  was  a 
prominent  figure  in  attendance  on  Mr.  Boun- 
derby's  car,  as  it  rolled  along  iu  triumph  with 
the  Bully  of  humility  inside. 

For,  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  not  only  seen  different 
davs,  but  was  highly  connected.     She  had  a 
great  aunt  living  in  these  very  times  called 
Lady  Scadgers.  Mr.  Sparsit,  deceased,  of  whom 
she  was  the  relict,  had  been  by  the  mother's 
side  what  Mrs.  Sparsit  still  called  "a  Powler." 
Strangers  of  limited  information  and  dull  ap- 
prehension were    sometimes  observed   not  to 
know  what  a  Powler  was,  and  even  to  appear 
uncertain  whether   it  might  be  a  business,  or 
a  political  party,  or  a  profession  of  I'aith.     The 
better  class    of  minds,  however,  did   not  need 
to   be    informed    that    the    Powlers   were   an 
ancient  stock,  who  could  trace  themselves  so 
exceedingly  far  back  that  it  was  not  surpris- 
ing if  they  sometimes  lost  themselves — which 
they   had  rather  frequently  done,  as  respected 
horse-tlesh,    blind-hookey,    Hebrew   monetary 
transactions,  and  the  Insolvent  Debtors  Court 
The  late  Mr.  Sparsit,  being  by  the  mother's 
side  a  Powler,  married  this  lady,  being  by  the 
father's  side  a  Scadgers.     Lady    Scadgers  (an 
immensely  fat  old  woman,   with  an  inordinate 
appetite  for  butcher's  meat,  and  a  mysterious 
leg,  which  had  now  refused  to  get  out  of  bed  for 
fourteen  years)  contrived   the  marriage,  at  a  - 
period  when   Sparsit  was   just    of  age,    and 
chiefly  noticeable  for  a  slender  body,  weakly 
supported    on  two  long  slim  props,  and  sur- 
mounted by  no  head  worth  mentioning.     He 
inherited   a  fair  fortune   from  his  uncle,  but 
owed  it  all  before  he  came  into  it,  and  spent 
it  twice  over  immediately  afterwards.     Thus, 
when   he  died,  at   twenty-four  (the    scene  of 
his  decease  Calais,  and  the  cause  brandy),  he 
did  not  leave  his  widow,  lium  whom  he  had 
been  separated  soon  after  the  honeymoon,  in 
affluent  circumstances.     That  bereaved  lady, 
fifteen  years  older  than  he,  fell  presently  at 
deadly    feud    with    her   only    relative,    Lady 
Scadgers ;    and,  partly  to  spite  her  ladyship, 
and,  partly  to  nuiintain  herself,  went  out  at  a 
salary.     And  here  she  was  now  in  her  elderly 
days,  with  the  Coriolanian  style  of  nose  and 
the  dense  black  eyebrows  which  had  captivated 
Sparsit,   making  Mr.    BounJerby's  tea  as  he 
took  his  breakfast. 

If  Bounderby  had  been  a  Conqueror,  and 
Mrs.  Sparsit  a  captive  Princess  whom  he 
took  about  as  a  feature  in  his  state-proces- 
sions, he  could  not  have  made  a  greater  flour- 
ish with  her  than  he  hal)itually  did.  Just  as 
it  belonged  to  his  boastfulness  to  dejireeiate 
his  own  extraction,  so  it  belonged  to  it  to  exalt 
Mrs.  Sparsit's.     In  the  measure  that  he  would 


98 


DICKENS'  NEW   STORIES. 


not  allow  his  own  youth  to  have  been  attend- 
ed by  a  single  favorable  circumstance,  he 
brightened  Mrs.  Sparsit's  juvenile  career  with 
every  possible  advantage,  and  showered  wagon 
loads  of  early  roses  all  over  that  lady's  path. 
"And  yet,  sir,"  he  would  say,  "how  does  it  turn 
out  after  all?  Why  here  she  is  at  a  hundred  a 
year  (I  give  her  a  hundred,  which  she  is  pleas- 
ed to  term  handsome),  keeping  the  house  of 
Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown!" 

Nay,  he  made  this  foil  of  his  so  very  widely 
known,  that  third  parties  took  it  up,  and 
handled  it  on  some  occasions  with  considerable 
briskness.  It  was  one  of  the  most  exaspera- 
ting attributes  of  Bounderby,  that  he  not  only 
sang  his  own  praises,  but  stimulated  other 
men  to  sing  them.  There  was  a  moral  infec- 
tion of  claptrap  in  him.  Strangers,  modest 
enough  elsewhere,  started  up  at  dinners  in 
Coketown,  and  boasted,  in  quite  a  rampant 
way,  of  Bounderby.  They  made  him  out  to 
be  the  Royal  arms,  the  Union  Jack,  Magna 
Charta,  John  Bull,  Habeas  Corpus,  the  Bill  of 
Rights,  An  Englishman's  house  is  his  castle, 
Church  and  State,  and  God  save  the  Queen, 
all  put  together.  And  as  often  (and  it  was 
very  often)  as  an  orator  of  this  kind  brought 
into  his  peroration, 

"  Princes  and  Lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade, 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made:" 

— it  was,  for  certain,  more  or  less  understood 
among  the  company  that  he  had  heard  of 
Mrs.   Sparsit. 

"Mr.  Bounderby,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "you 
are  unusually  slow,  sir,  with  your  breakfast 
this  morning." 

"Why,  ma'am,"  he  returned,  "I  am  thinking 
about  Tom  Gradgrind's  whim ;"  Tom  Grad- 
grind,  for  a  bluff  independent  maunerof  speak- 
ing— as  if  somebody  were  always  endeavoring 
to  bribe  him  with  immense  sums  to  say  Thomas, 
and  he  wouldn't;  "Tom  Gradgrind's  whim, 
ma'am,  of  bringing  up  the  tumbling-girl." 

"The  girl  is  now  waiting  to  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  "whether  she  is  to  go  straight  to  the 
school,  or  up  to  the  Lodge." 

"She  must  wait,  ma'am,"  answered  Boun- 
derby, "till  I  know  myself.  We  shall  have 
Tom  Gradgrind  down  here  presently,  I  sup- 
pose. If  he  should  wish  her  to  remain  here 
a  day  or  two  longer,  of  course  she  can, 
ma'am." 

"Of  course  she  can  if  you  wish  it,  Mr. 
Bounderby." 

' '  I  told  him  I  would  give  her  a  shake-down 
here,  last  night,  in  order  that  he  might  sleep 
on  it  before  he  decided  to  let  her  have  any  as- 
sociation with  Louisa." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Bounderby  ?  Very  thoughtful 
of  you  f 

Mrs.  Sparsit's  Coriolanian  nose  underwent  a 
slight  expansion  of  the  nostrils,  and  her  black 
eyebrows  contracted  as  she  took  a  sip  of  tea. 

"  It's  tolerably  clear  to  me"  said  Bounder- 
by, "  that  the  little  puss  can  get  small  good  out 
of  such  companionship." 


"Are  you  speaking  of  young  Miss  Gradgrind, 
Mr.  Bounderby?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  am  speaking  of  Louisa." 

"Your  observation  being  limited  to  'little 
puss,'  "  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "and  there  being  two 
little  girls  in  question,  I  did  not  know  which 
might  be  indicated  by  that  expression." 

"Louisa,"  repeated  Mr.  Bounderby.  "Louisa, 
Louisa." 

"You  are  quite  another  father  to  Louisa, 
sir."  Mrs.  Sparsit  took  a  little  more  tea;  and, 
as  she  bent  her  again  contracted  eyebrows 
over  her  steaming  cup,  rather  looked  as  if  her 
classical  countenance  were  invoking  the  infer- 
nal gods. 

"If  you  had  said  I  was  another  father  to 
Tom — young  Tom,  I  mean,  not  my  friend, 
Tom  Gradgrind — you  might  have  been  nearer 
the  mark.  I  am  going  to  take  young  Tom 
into  my  office.  Going  to  have  him  under  my 
wing,  ma'am." 

"Indeed  ?  Rather  young  for  that,  is  he  not, 
sir?"  Mrs.  Sparsit's  "sir,"  in  addressing  Mr. 
Bounderby,  was  a  word  of  ceremony,  rather 
exacting  consideration  for  herself  in  the  use, 
than  honoring  him. 

"I'm  not  going  to  take  him  at  once;  he  is 
to  finish  his  educational  cramming  before 
then,"  said  Bounderby.  "By  the  Lord  Har- 
ry, he'll  have  enough  of  it,  first  and  last ! 
He'd  open  his  eyes,  that  boy  would,  if  he 
knew  how  empty  of  learning  my  young  maw 
was,  at  his  time  of  life."  Which,  by  the  by, 
he  probably  did  know,  for  he  had  heard  of  it 
often  enough.  "But  it's  extraordinary  the 
difficulty  I  have  on  scores  of  such  subjects,  in 
speaking  to  any  one  on  equal  terms.  Here, 
for  example,  I  have  been  speaking  to  you  this 
morning  about  Tumblers.  Why,  what  do  you 
know  about  tumblers?  At  the  time  when,  to 
have  been  a  tumbler  in  the  mud  of  the  streets, 
would  have  been  a  godsend  to  me,  a  prize 
in  the  lottery  to  me,  you  were  at  the  Italian 
Opera.  You  were  coming  out  of  the  Italian 
Opera,  ma'am,  in  white  satin  and  jewels,  a 
blaze  of  splendor,  when  I  hadn't  a  penny  to 
buy  a  link  to  light  you." 

"I  certainly,  sir,"  returned  Mrs. Sparsit,  with 
a  dignity  serenely  mournful,  "was  familiar  with 
the  Italian  Opera  at  a  very  early  age." 

"Egad,  ma"am,  so  was  I,"  said  Bounderby, 
" — with  the  wrong  side  of  it.  A  hard  bed  the 
pavement  of  its  Arcade  used  to  make,  I  as- 
sure you.  People  like  you,  ma'am,  accus- 
tomed from  infancy  to  lie  on  Down  feathers, 
have  no  idea  how  hard  a  paving-stone  is, 
without  trying  it.  No,  no,  it's  of  no  use  my 
talking  to  you  about  tumblers.  I  should  speak 
of  foreign  dancers,  and  the  West  End  of  Lon- 
don, and  May  Fair,  and  lords  and  ladies  and 
honorables." 

"I  trust,  sir,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with 
decent  resignation,  "it  is  not  necessary  that 
you  should  do  anything  of  that  kind.  I  hope 
I  have  learnt  how  to  accommodate  myself  to 
the  changes  of  life.  If  I  have  acquired  an  in- 
terest in  hearing  of  your  instructive   experi- 


HARD  TIMES. 


99 


ences,  and  can  scarcely  hear  enough  of  them, 
I  claim  no  merit  for  that,  since  I  believe  it  is 
a  general  sentiment." 

"Well,  ma'aiii,"  said  her  patron,  perhaps 
some  people  may  be  pleased  to  say  that  they 
do  like  to  hear,  in  his  own  unpolished  way, 
what  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown  has  gone 
through.  But  you  must  confess  that  you 
were  born  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  yourself.  Come, 
ma'am,  you  know  you  were  born  in  the  lap  of 
luxury." 

"I  do  not,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit  with 
a  shake  of  her  head,  "deny  it." 

Mr.  Bounderby  was  obliged  to  get  up  from 
table,  and  stand  with  his  back  to  the  fire, 
looking  at  her;  she  was  such  an  enhancement 
of  his  merits. 

"And  you  were  in  crack  society.  Devilish 
high  society,"  he  said,  warming  his  legs. 

"  It  is  true,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with 
an  affectation  of  humility  the  very  opposite 
of  his,  and  therefore  in  no  danger  of  jostling 
it. 

"  You  were  in  the  tiptop  fashion,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a 
kind  of  social  widowhood  upon  her.  "  It  is 
unquestionably  true." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  bending  himself  at  the 
knees,  literally  embraced  his  legs  in  his  great 
satisfactiou,  and  laughed  aloud.  Mr.  and  Miss 
Gradgrind  being  then  announced,  he  received 
the  former  with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  the 
latter  with  a  kiss. 

"Can  Jupe  be  sent  here,  Bounderby?"  asked 
Mr.  Gradgrind. 

Certainly.  So  Jupe  was  sent  there.  On 
coming  in,  she  curtseyed  to  Mr.  Bounderby, 
and  to  his  friend  Tom  Gradgrind,  and  also  to 
Louisa;  but  in  her  confusion  unluckily  omitted 
Mrs.  Sparsit.  Observing  this,  the  blustrous 
Bounderby  had  the  Ibllowing  remarks  to 
make  : 

"Now,  I  tell  you  what,  my  girl.  The  name 
of  that  lady  by  the  teapot,  is  Mrs.  Sparsit. 
That  lady  acts  as  mistress  of  this  house, 
and  she  is  a  highly  connected  lady.  Conse- 
quently, if  ever  you  come  again  into  any  room 
in  this  house,  you  will  make  a  short  stay  in  it 
if  you  don't  behave  towards  that  lady  in  your 
most  respectful  manner.  Wow,  I  don't  care 
a  button  what  you  do  to  me,  because  I  don't 
atifict  to  be  anybody.  So  far  from  having  high 
connexions,  I  have  no  connexions  at  all,  and 
1  come  of  the  scum  of  the  earth.  But  towards 
that  lady,  i  do  care  what  you  do;  and  you  shall 
do  what  is  deierential  and  respectful,  or  yuu 
shall  not  come  here." 

"I  hope,  Bounderby,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
in  a  conciliatory  voice,  "that  this  was  merely 
an  oversight." 

"My  friend  Tom  Gradgrind  suggests,  Mrs. 
Sparsit,"  said  Bounderby,  "that  this  was  mere- 
ly an  oversight.  Very  iikelv.  However,  as 
you  are  aware,  ma'am,  I  don't  allow  of  even 
ovei'sights  towards  you." 


"You  are  very  good  indeed,  sir,"  returned 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  shaking  her  head  with  her  state 
humility.     "It  is  not  worth  speaking  of." 

Sissy,  who  all  this  time  had  been  faintly 
excusing  herself  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  was 
now  waved  over  by  the  master  of  the  house 
to  Mr.  Gradgrind.  She  stood,  looking  intently 
at  him,  and  Louisa  stood  coldly  by,  with  her 
eyes  upon  the  ground,  while  he  proceeded 
thus : 

"  Jupe,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  take 
you  into  my  house ;  and  when  you  are  not  in 
attendance  at  the  school,  to  employ  you  about 
Mrs.  Gradgrind,  who  is  rather  an  invalid.  I 
have  explained  to  Miss  Louisa — this  is  Miss 
Louisa — the  miserable  but  natural  end  of  your 
late  career ;  and  you  are  to  expressly  under- 
stand that  the  whole  of  that  subject  is  past, 
and  is  not  to  be  relerred  to  any  more.  From 
this  time  you  begin  your  history.  You  are, 
at  present,  ignorant,  I  know." 

"  Yes,  sir,  very,"  she  answered,  curtseying. 

"  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction  of  causing 
you  to  be  strictly  educated  ;  and  you  will  be 
a  living  proof  to  all  who  come  into  communi- 
cation with  you,  of  the  advantages  of  the 
training  you  will  receive.  You  will  be  re- 
claimed and  formed.  You  have  been  in  the 
habit,  now,  of  reading  to  your  father,  and 
those  people  I  found  you  among,  I  dare  say  ?" 
said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  beckoning  her  nearer  to 
him  before  he  said  so,  and  dropping  his  voice. 

"  Only  to  father  and  Merrylegs,  sir.  At 
least  I  mean  to  father,  when  Merrylegs  was 
always  there." 

"Never  mind  Merrylegs,  Jupe,"  said  Mr. 
Gradgrind,  with  a  passing  frown.  "I  don't  ask 
about  him.  I  understand  you  to  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  reading  to  your  father?" 

"0  yes,  sir,  thousands  of  times.  They  were 
the  happiest — 0,  of  all  the  happy  times  we  had 
together,  sirl " 

It  was  only  now,  when  her  grief  broke  out, 
that  Louisa  looked  at  her. 

"And  what,"  asked  Mr.  Gradgrind,  in  a  still 
lower  voice,  "did  you  rea'd  to  your  father, 
Jupe?" 

"About  the  Fairies,  sir,  and  the  Dwarf,  and 
the  Hunchback,  and  the  Genies,"  she  sobbed 
out. 

"There!"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "that  is 
enough.  Never  breathe  a  word  of  such  de- 
structive nonsense  any  more.  Bounderby,  this 
is  a  case  for  rigid  training,  and  I  shall  observe 
it  with  interest." 

"Well,"  returned  Mr.  Bounderby,  "I  have 
given  you  my  opinion  already,  and  1  shouldn't 
do  as  you  do.  But,  very  well,  very  well.  Siuca 
you  are  bent  upon  it,  veri/  well!" 

So,  Mr.  Gradgriud  and  his  daughter  took 
Cecilia  Jupe  oil  with  them  to  Stone  Lodge, 
and  on  the  way  Louisa  nevi'r  spoke  one  wurd, 
good  or  bad.  And  Mr.  Bounderby  went  about 
his  daily  pursuits.  And  Mrs.  Sparsit  got  be- 
hind her  eyebrows  and  meditated  in  the  gloom 
of  that  retreat,  all  the  morning. 


100 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 


Let  us  strike  the  key  note  again,  before 
pursuing  the  tune. 

When  she  was  half  a  dozen  years  y«unger, 
Louisa  had  been  overheard  to  begin  a  conver- 
sation with  her  brother  one  day,  by  saying, 
"Tom,  I  wonder" — upon  which  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
who  was  the  person  overhearing,  stepped  forth 
into  the  Hght,  and  said,  "Louisa,  never  wonder!" 

Herein  lay  the  spring  of  the  mechanical  art 
and  mystery  of  educating  the  reason  without 
stooping  to  the  cultivation  of  the  sentiments 
and  aflections.  Never  wonder.  By  means  of 
addition,  subtraction,  multiplication  and  divi- 
sion, settle  everything  somehow,  and  never 
wonder.  Bring  to  me,  says  M'Choakumchild, 
yonder  baby  just  able  to  walk,  and  I  will  en- 
gage that  it  shall  never  wonder. 

Now,  besides  very  many  babies  just  able  to 
walk,  there  happened  to  be  in  Coketown  a  con- 
siderable population  of  babies  who  had  been 
walking  against  time  towards  the  infinite  world, 
twenty,  thirty,  forty,  fifty  years  and  more. 
These  portentous  infants  being  alarming  crea- 
tures to  stalk  about  in  any  human  society,  the 
eighteen  denominations  incessantly  scratched 
one  another's  faces  and  pulled  one  another's 
hair,  by  way  of  agreeing  on  the  steps  to  be  taken 
for  their  improvement — which  they  never  did; 
a  surprising  circumstance,  when  the  happy 
adaptation  of  the  means  to  the  end  is  con- 
sidered. Still,  although  they  ditfered  in 
every  other  particular,  conceivable  and  incon- 
ceivable (especially  inconceivable),  they  were 
pretty  well  united  on  the  point  that  these  un- 
lucky infants  were  never  to  wonder.  Body 
number  one,  said  they  must  take  everything 
on  trust.  Body  number  two,  said  they  must 
take  everything  on  political  economy.  Body 
number  three,  wrote  leaden  little  books  for 
them,  showing  how  the  good  grown-up  baby 
invariably  got  to  the  Savings  Bank,  and  the  bad 
grown-up  baby  invariably  got  transported. — 
Body  number  four,  under  dreary  pretences  of 
being  droll  (when  it  was  very  melancholy  in- 
deed), made  the  shallowest  pretences  of  con- 
cealing pitfalls  of  knowledge,  into  which  it 
was  the  duty  of  these  babies  to  be  smuggled 
and  inveigled.  But,  all  the  bodies  agreed  that 
they  were  never  to  wonder. 

There  was  a  library  in  Coketown,  to  which 
general  access  was  easy.  Mr.  Gradgrind 
greatly  tormented  his  mind  about  what  the 
people  read  in  this  library:  a  point,  whereon 
little  rivers  of  tabular  statements  periodically 
flowed  into  the  howling  ocean  of  tabular 
statements,  which  no  diver  ever  got  to  any 
depth  in  and  came  up  sane.  It  was  a  dis- 
heartening circumstance,  but  a  melancholy 
fact,  that  even  these  readers  persisted  in  won- 
dering. They  wondered  about  human  nature, 
human  passions,  human  hopes  and  tears,  the 
struggles,  triumphs  and  defeats,  the  cores 
and  joys  and  sorrows,  the  lives  and  deaths, 
of  common  men  and  women.  They  some- 
times, after  fifteen  hours'  work,  sat  down  to 


read  mere  fables  about  men  and  women,  more 
or  less  like  themselves,  and  children,  more  or 
less  like  their  own.  They  took  De  Foe  to  their 
bosoms,  instead  ot  Euclid,  and  seemed  to  be 
on  the  whole  more  comforted  by  Goldsmith 
than  by  Cocker.  Mr.  Gradgrind  was  for  ever 
working,  in  print  and  out  of  print,  at  this  ec- 
centric sum,  and  he  never  could  make  out  how 
it  yielded  this  unaccountable  product. 

"  I  am  sick  of  my  life.  Loo.  I  hate  it  alto- 
gether, and  I  hate  everybody  except  you,"  said 
the  unnatural  young  Thomas  Gradgrind  in  the 
hair-cutting  chamber  at  twilight. 

"You  don't  hate  Sissy,  Tom." 

"  I  hate  to  be  obliged  to  call  her  Jupe.  And 
she  hates  me,"  said  Tom  moodily. 

"  No  she  does  not,  Tom,  I  am  sure." 

"She  must,"  said  Tom.  "She  must  just 
hate  and  detest  the  whole  set-out  of  us. 
They'll  bother  her  head  off,  I  think,  before 
they  have  done  with  her.  Already  she's 
getting  as  pale  as  wax,  and  as  heavy  as — I 
am." 

Young  Thomas  expressed  these  sentiments, 
sitting  astride  of  a  chair  before  the  fire,  with 
his  arms  on  the  back,  and  his  sulky  face  on 
his  arms.  His  sister  sat  in  the  darker  corner 
by  the  fireside,  now  looking  at  him,  now  look- 
ing at  the  bright  sparks  as  they  dropped  upon 
the  hearth. 

"As  to  me,"  said  Tom,  tumbling  his  hair 
all  manner  of  ways  with  his  sulky  hands,  "I 
am  a  Donkey,  that's  what  /  am.  I  am  as 
obstinate  as  one,  I  am  more  stupid  than  one- 
I  get  as  much  pleasure  as  one,  and  I  should 
like  to  kick  like  one." 

"Not  me,  I  hope,  Tom  ?" 

"No,  Loo  ;  I  wouldn't  hurt  you.  I  made  an 
exception  of  you  at  first.  I  don't  know  what 
this — ^joUy  old — Jaundiced  Jail — " — Tom  had 
paused  to  find  a  sufficiently  complimentary 
and  expressive  name  for  the  parental  root) 
and  seemed  to  relieve  his  mind  for  a  moment 
by  the  strong  alliteration  of  this  one,  "would 
be  without  you." 

"Indeed,  Tom  ?  Do  you  really  and  truly 
say  so  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course  I  do.  What's  the  use  of 
talking  about  it !"  returned  Tom,  chafing  his 
face  on  his  coat  sleeve  as  if  to  mortify  his  flesh, 
and  have  it  in  unison  with  his  spirit. 

"Because,  Tom,"  said  his  sister,  after  silent- 
ly watching  the  sparks  awhile,  "as  I  get  older, 
and  nearer  growing  up,  I  often  sit  wondering 
here,  and  think  how  unfortunate  it  is  for  me 
that  I  can't  reconcile  you  to  home  better  than 
I  am  able  to  do.  I  don't  know  what  other 
girls  know.  I  can't  play  to  you,  or  sing  to 
you.  I  can't  talk  to  you  so  as  to  lighten  your 
mind,  for  I  never  see  any  amusing  sights  or 
read  any  amusing  books  that  it  would  be  a 
pleasure  or  a  relief  to  you  to  talk  about,  when 
you  are  tired." 

"Well,  no  more  do  I.  I  am  as  bad  as  you 
in  that  respect;  and  I  am  a  Mule  too,  which 
you're  not.  If  father  was  determined  to  make 
me  either  a  Prig  or  a  Mule,  and  I  am  not  a 


HARD  TIMES. 


101 


Prig,  why,  it  stands  to  reason,  I  must  be  a 
Mule.     And  so  I  am,"  said  Tom,  desperately. 

"  It's  a  great  pity,"  said  Louisa,  after  ano- 
ther pause,  and  speaking  thoughtfully  out  of 
hor  dark  corner ;  "  its  a  great  pity,  Tom.  It's 
very  uulortunate  for  both  of  us." 

"  Oh  1  You,"  said  Tom  ;  "you  are  a  girl. 
Loo,  and  St  pr;irl  comes  out  of  it  better  than  a 
boy  does.  1  don't  miss  anything  in  you.  You 
are  the  only  pleasure  I  have — you  can  brighten 
even  this  place — and  you  can  always  lead  me 
as  you  like." 

"  You  are  a  dear  brother,  Tom  ;  and  while 
you  think  I  can  do  such  things,  I  don't  so 
much  mind  knowing  better.  Though  I  do 
know  better,  Tom,  and  am  very  sorry  for  it." 
She  came  and  kissed  him,  and  went  back  into 
her  corner  again. 

"  I  wish  I  could  collect  all  the  Facts  we  hear 
so  much  about,"  said  Tom,  spitefully  setting 
his  teeth,  "  and  all  the  Figures,  and  all  the 
people  who  found  them  out ;  and  1  wish  I 
could  put  a  thousand  barrels  of  gunpowder 
under  them,  and  blow  them  all  up  together  ! 
However,  when  I  go  to  live  with  old  Boun- 
derby,  I'U  have  my  revenge." 

"  Your  revenge,  Tom  ?" 

"  1  mean,  1 11  enjoy  myself  a  little,  and  go 
about  and  see  something,  and  hear  something. 
I'll  recompense  myself  for  the  way  in  which 
I  have  been  brought  up." 

'•  But  don't  disappoint  yourself  beforehand, 
Tom.  Mr.  Bounderby  thinks  as  father  thinks, 
and  is  a  great  deal  rougher,  and  not  half  so 
kind." 

"Ohl"  said  Tom,  laughing;  "I  don't  mind 
that.  I  shall  very  well  know  how  to  manage 
and  smooth  old  Bounderbyl" 

Their  shadows  were  defined  upon  the  wall, 
but  those  of  the  high  presses  in  the  room  were 
all  blended  together  on  the  wall  and  on  the 
ceiling,  as  if  the  brother  and  sister  were  over- 
bung  by  a  dark  cavern.  Or,  a  fanciful  imagi- 
nation— if  such  treason  could  have  been  there 
— mi^ht  have  made  it  out  to  be  the  sliadow  of 
their  subject,  and  of  its  lowering  association 
with  their  future. 

"'What  is  your  great  mode  of  smoothing  and 
managing,  Tom?     Is  it  a  secret?" 

"  OhI"  said  Tom,  "if  it  is  a  secret,  it's  not 
tar  off.  It's  you.  You  are  his  little  pet,  you 
lire  his  favorite;  he'll  do  anything  ■^or  you. 
When  he  says  to  me  what  I  don't  like,  I  shall 
Bav  10  him,  'My  sister  Loo  will  be  hurt  and  dis- 
ftppoinied,  Mr.  Buuiiderby.  Slie  always  used 
to  tell  me  she  was  sure  you  would  be  easier 
with  me  than  this.'  That'll  bring  him  about, 
01  nothing  will." 

After  waiting  for  some  answering  remark 
and  getting  none,  Tom  wearily  relapsed  itifo 
the  present  lime,  and  twined  himself  yawning 
round  and  about  the  rails  of  lii.-^  chair,  and 
rumpled  his  head  more  ami  mure,  until  he  sud- 
denly looked  up,  and  asked: 

"rlave  vou  gone  to  sleep,  Loo?'' 

"No,  Tom.     I  am  looking  at  the  fire." 

"Yuu  seem   to  find   more  to  look  at   in   it 


than  ever  I  could  find,"  said  Tom.  "Another 
of  the  advantages,  I  suppose,  of  being  a  girl." 

"Tom,"  inquired  his  sister,  slowly,  and  in  a 
curious  tone,  as  if  she  were  reading  what  she 
asked,  in  the  fire,  and  it  were  not  quite  plainly 
written  there,  "do  you  look  forward  with  any 
satisfaction  to  this  change  to  Mr.  Bounderby's?" 

"Why,  there's  one  thing  to  be  said  of  it,"  re- 
turned Tom,  pushing  his  chair  from  him,  and 
standing  up;  "it  will  be  getting  away  from 
home." 

"There  is  one  thing  to  be  said  of  it,"  Louisa 
repeated  in  her  former  curious  tone;  "it  will 
be  getting  away  from  home.     Yes." 

"Not  but  what  I  shall  be  very  unwilling, 
both  to  leave  you.  Loo,  and  to  leave  you 
here.  But  I  must  go,  you  know,  whether  I 
like  it  or  not;  and  I  had  better  go  where  I  can 
take  with  me  some  advantage  of  your  in- 
fiuence,  than  where  I  should  lose  it  altogether. 
Don't  you  see?" 

"Yes,  Tom." 

The  answer  was  so  long  in  coming,  though 
there  was  no  indecision  in  it'  that  Tom  went 
and  leaned-  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  to  con- 
template the  fire  which  so  engrossed  her,  from 
her  point  of  view,  and  see  what  he  could  make 
of  it. 

"Except  that  it  is  a  fire,"  said  Tom,"  it 
looks  to  me  as  stupid  and  blank  as  everything 
else  looks.  What  do  you  see  in  it?  Not  a 
circus?" 

"I  don't  see  anything  in  it,  Tom,  parti- 
cularly. But  since  I  have  been  looking  at  it, 
I  have  been  wondering  about  you  and  me, 
grown  up." 

"  Wondering  again  I"  said  Tom. 

"  I  have  such  unmanageable  thoughts,"  re- 
turned his  sister,  "  that  they  will  wonder." 

"  Then  I  beg  of  you,  Louisa,"  said  Mrs. 
Gradgrind,  who  had  opened  the  doirf  without 
beinir  heard,  '  to  do  nothing  of  that  descrip- 
tion, for  goodness  sake,  you  inconsiderate  girl, 
or  I  shall  never  hear  the  last  of  it  I'rom  your 
father.  And  Thomas,  it  is  really  shameful, 
with  my  poor  head  continually  wearing  me 
out,  that  a  boy  brought  up  as  you  have  been, 
and  whose  education  has  cost  what  yours  has, 
should  be  found  encouraging  his  sister  to  won- 
der, when  he  knows  his  father  has  expressly 
said  that  she  is  not  to  do  it." 

Louisa  denied  Tom's  participation  in  the 
offence;  but  her  mother  stopped  her  with  the 
conclusive  answer,  "Louisa,  don't  tell  me,  in 
my  state  of  health;  for  unless  you  had  been 
encouraged,  it  is  morally  and  physically  im- 
possible that  you  could  have  done  it.'' 

"I  was  encouraged  by  nothing,  mother,  but 
by  looking  at  the  red  sparks  dropping  out  of 
the  fire,  and  whitening  and  dying.  It  mad"? 
me  think,  after  all,  how  short  my  life  would 
be,  and  how  little  1  could  hope  to  do  in  it." 

"  Nonsense  !''  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  leiiderod 
almost  energetic.  "  Nonsense  1  Don't  stand 
there  and  tell  me  such  stuff,  Louisa,  lo  my 
face,  when  you  know  very  well  that  if  it  was 
ever  to  reach  your  father's  ears  I  should  never 


102 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


hear  the  last  of  it.  After  all  the  trouble  that  has 
been  taken  with  you  !  After  the  lectures  you 
have  attended,  and  the  experiments  you  have 
seen  1  After  I  have  heard  you  myself,  when 
the  whole  of  my  right  side  has  been  benumbed, 
going  on  with  your  master  about  combus- 
tion, and  calcination,  and  calorification,  and  I 
may  say  every  kind  of  ation  that  could  drive  a 
poor  invalid  distracted,  to  hear  you  talking  in 
this  absurd  way  about  sparks  and  ashes  I  I 
wish,"  whimpered  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  taking  a 
chair,  and  discharging  her  strongest  point  be- 
fore succumbing  under  these  mere  shadows  of 
facts,  "yes,  I  really  do  wish  that  I  had  never 
had  a  family,  and  then  you  would  have  known 
what  it  was  to  do  without  me  !" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Sissy  Jupe  had  not  an  easy  time  of  it,  be- 
tween Mr.  M'Choakumchild  and  Mrs.  Grad- 
grind, and  was  not  without  strong  impulses  in 
the  first  months  of  her  probation,  to  run  away. 
It  hailed  facts  all  day  long  so  very  hard,  and 
life  in  general  was  opened  to  her  as  such  a 
closely-ruled  cypheriug-book,  that  assuredly 
she  would  have  run  away,  but  for  only  one 
restraint. 

It  is  lamentable  to  think  of;  but  this  re- 
straint was  the  result  of  no  arithmetical  pro- 
cess, was  self-imposed  in  defiance  of  all  calcu- 
lation, and  went  dead  against  any  table  of  pro- 
babilities that  any  Actuary  would  have  drawn 
up  from  the  premises.  The  girl  believed  that 
her  father  had  not  deserted  her ;  she  lived  in 
the  hope  that  he  would  come  back,  and  in  the 
faith  that  he  would  be  made  the  happier  by 
her  remaining  where  she  was. 

The  wretched  ignorance  with  which  Jupe 
clung  to  this  consolation,  rejecting  the  superior 
comfort  of  knowing,  on  a  sound  arithmetical 
basis,  that  her  father  was  an  unnatural  vaga- 
bond, filled  Mr.  Gradgrind  with  pity.  Yet, 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  M'Choakumchild 
reported  that  she  had  a  very  dense  head 
for  figures  ;  that,  once  possessed  with  a 
general  idea  of  the  globe,  she  took  the 
smallest  conceivable  interest  in  its  exact 
measurements ;  that  she  was  extremely  slow 
in  the  acquisition  of  dates,  unless  some  pitiful 
incident  happened  to  be  connected  therewith; 
that  she  would  burst  into  tears  on  being 
required  (by  the  mental  process)  immediately 
to  name  the  cost  of  two  hundred  and  forty- 
Beven  muslin  caps  at  fourteenpence  halfpenny; 
that  she  was  as  low  down,  in  the  school,  as 
low  could  be ;  that  after  eight  weeks  of  induc- 
tion into  the  elements  of  Political  Economy, 
she  had  only  yesteiday  been  set  right  by  a 
prattler  three  feet  high,  for  returning  to  the 
question,  "  What  is  the  first  principle  of  this 
science?"  the  absurd  answer,  "To  do  unto 
others  as  I  would  that  they  should  do  unto 
me." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  observed,  shaking  his  head, 
that  all  this  was  very  bad  ;  that  it  showed 
the  necessity  of  infinite  grinding  at  the  mill 


of  knowledge,  as  per  system,  schedule,  blue 
book  report,  and  tabular  statements  A  to  Z ; 
and  that  Jupe  "  must  be  kept  to  it."  So  Jupe 
was  kept  to  it,  and  became  very  low  spirited, 
but  no  wiser. 

"  It  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  you.  Miss 
Louisa  1  "  she  said  one  night,  when  Louisa 
had  endeavored  to  make  her  perplexities  for 
next  day  something  clearer  to  her. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  should  know  so  much,  Miss  Louisa.  All 
that  is  difficult  to  me  now,  would  be  so  easy 
then." 

"  You  might  not  be  the  better  for  it.  Sissy." 

Sissy  submitted,  after  a  little  hesitation, 
"  I  should  not  be  the  worse.  Miss  Louisa." 
To  which  Miss  Louisa  answered,  ''  1  don't 
know  that." 

There  had  been  so  little  communication  be- 
tween these  two — both  because  life  at  Stone 
Lodge  went  monotonously  round  like  a  piece 
of  machinery  which  discouraged  human  inter- 
ference, and  because  of  the  prohibition  rela- 
tive to  Sissy's  past  career — that  they  were  >till 
almost  strangers.  Sissy,  with  her  dark  eyes 
wonderingly  directed  to  Louisa's  face,  was 
uncertain  whether  to  say  more  or  to  remain 
silent. 

"You  are  more  useful  to  my  mother,  and 
more  pleasant  with  her  than  1  can  ever  be." 
Louisa  resumed.  "You  are  pleasanter  to  your- 
self, than  /  am  to  myse\i'." 

"But,  if  you  please,  Miss  Louisa,"  Sissy 
pleaded,  "I  am — 0  so  stupid  1" 

Louisa,  with  a  brighter  laugh  than  usual, 
told  her  she  would  be  wiser  by  and  by. 

"You  don't  know,''  said  Sissy,  half  crying, 
"what  a  stupid  girl  I  am.  All  through  schuol 
hours  I  make  mistakes.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
M'Choakumchild  call  me  up,  over  and  over 
again,  regularly  to  make  mistakes.  1  can't 
help  them.  They  seem  to  come  natural  to 
me." 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  M'Choakumchild  never  make 
any  mistakes  themselves,  I  suppose.  Sissy?" 

"0  no!"  she  eagerly  returned.  "They  know 
everything." 

"Tell  me  some  of  your  mistakes." 

"I  am  almost  ashamed,"  said  Sissy,  with  re- 
luctance. "But  to-day,  for  instance,  Mr. 
M'Choakumchild  was  explaining  to  us  about 
Natural  Prosperity." 

"National,  1  think  it  must  have  been,"  ob- 
served Louisa. 

"Yes,  it  was — But  isn't  it  the  same?"  she 
timidly  asked. 

"You  had  better  say.  National,  as  he  said 
so,"  returned  Louisa,  with  her  dry  reserve. 

"National  Prosperity.  And  he  said.  Now, 
this  schoolroom  is  a  Nation.  And  in  this  na- 
tion, there  are  fifty  millions  of  money.  Isn't 
this  a  prosperous  nation?  Girl  number  twenty, 
isn't  this  a  prosperous  nation,  and  a'n't  you  in 
a  thriving  stale?" 

"What  did  )ou  say?"  asked  Louisa. 

'•  Miss  Louisa,  1  said  I  didn't  know.  I 
ihuu 'lit   1   couldn't   know  whether   it   was  a 


HARD  TIMES. 


103 


prospTous  nation  or  not,  and  whethT  I  was 
in  a  thriving  state  or  not,  unless  I  knew  who 
had  got  the  money,  and  whether  any  of  it 
was  mine.  But  that  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  It  was  not  in  the  figures  at  all,"  said 
Sissy,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  That  was  a  great  mistake  of  yours," 
obsprved  Louisa. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Louisa,  I  know  it  was  now. 
Then  Mr.  M.'Choakumchild  said  he  would  try 
me  again.  And  he  said,  this  schoolroom  is 
an  immense  town,  and  in  it  there  are  a  million 
of  inhabitants,  and  only  five-and-twenty  are 
starved  to  death  in  the  streets,  in  the  course 
of  a  year.  What  is  your  remark  on  that 
proportion  ?  And  my  remark  was — for  I 
couldn't  think  of  a  better  one — that  I  thought 
it  must  be  just  as  hard  upon  those  who  were 
starved,  whether  the  others  were  a  million, 
or  a  million  million.  And  that  was  wrong, 
too." 

"Of  course  it  was." 

"Then  Mr.  M'Choakumchild  said  he  would 
try  me  once  more.  And  he  said.  Here  are  the 
sfutterings " 

"Statistics,"  said  Louisa. 

"Yes,  Miss  Louisa — they  always  remind  me 
of  stutterings,  and  that's  another  of  my  mis- 
takes— of  accidents  upon  the  sea.  And  I  find 
(Mr.  M'Choakumchild  said)  that  in  a  given 
time  a  hundred  thousand  persons  went  to  sea 
on  long  voyages,  and  only  tive  hundred  of  them 
were  drowned  or  burned  to  death.  What  is 
the  percentage  ?  And  I  said.  Miss;"  here  Sissy 
fairly  sobbed  as  confessing  with  extreme  con- 
trition to  her  greatest  error ;  "I  said  it  was 
nothing." 

"Nothing,  Sissy?" 

"Nothing,  Miss — to  the  relations  anfi  friends 
of  the  people  \)-ho  were  killed.  I  shall  never 
learn,"  said  Sissy.  "And  the  worst  of  all  is, 
that  although  my  poor  father  wished  me  so 
much  to  learn,  and  although  i  am  so  anxious 
to  learn  because  he  wished  me  to,  I  am  afraid 
I  don't  like  it." 

Louisa  stood  looking  at  the  pretty  modest 
head,  as  it  drooped  abashed  betbre  her,  until 
it  was  raised  again  to  glance  at  her  face.  Then 
she  asked: 

"Did  your  father  know  so  much  himself, 
that  he  wished  you  to  be  well  taught  too, 
Sissy?" 

Sissy  hesitated  before  replying,  and  so  plain- 
ly showed  her  sense  that  they  were  entering 
on  forbidden  ground,  that  Louisa  added,  "No 
one  hears  us;  and  if  any  one  did,  I  am  sure 
no  harm  could  be  found  in  such  an  innocent 
question." 

"No,  Miss  Louisa,"  answered  Sissy,  upon 
this  encouragement,  shaking  her  head;  "father 
knows  very  little  indeed.  It's  as  much  as  he 
can  do  to  write;  and  it's  more  than  people  in 
general  can  do  to  read  his  writing.  Though 
it's  plain  to  mt." 

"Your  mother?"' 

"Father  says  she  was  quite  a  scholar.  She 
died  when  I  was  born.     She  was;"  Sissy  made 


the  terrible  communication  nervously ;  "she 
was  a  dancer." 

"Did  your  father  love  her?''  Louisa  asked 
these  questions  with  a  strong,  wild,  wandering 
interest  peculiar  to  her;  an  interest  gone 
astray  like  a  banished  creature,  and  hiding  in 
solitary  places. 

"0  yes  !  As  dearly  as  he  loves  me.  Father 
loved  me,  first,  for  her  sake.  He  carried  me 
about  with  him  when  I  was  quite  a  baby.  We 
have  never  been  asunder  from  that  time." 

"Yet  he  leaves  you  now.  Sissy  ?'' 

"Only  for  my  good.  Nobody  understands 
him  as  I  dn;  nobody  knows  him  as  I  do. 
When  he  left  me  for  my  good — he  never  would 
have  left  me  for  his  own — I  know  he  was 
almost  broken-hearted  with  the  trial.  He  will 
not  be  happy  for  a  single  minute,  till  he  comes 
back." 

"Tell  me  more  about  him,"  said  Louisa,  "I 
will  never  ask  you  again.  Where  did  vou 
Hve?';  ^        °  ^ 

"We  travelled  about  the  country,  and  had 
no  fixed  place  to  live  in.  Father's  a  ;"  Sissy 
whispered  the  awful  word;  "a  clown." 

"To  make  the  people  laugh?''  said  Louisa, 
with  a  nod  of  intelligence. 

"Yes.  But  they  wouldn't  laugh  sometimes, 
and  then  father  cried.  Lately,  they  very 
often  wouldn't  laugh,  and  he  used  to  come 
home  despairing.  Father 's  not  like  most. 
Those  who  didn't  know  him  as  well  as  I  do. 
and  didn't  love  him  as  dearly  as  I  do,  might 
believe  he  was  not  quite  right.  Sometimes 
they  played  tricks  upon  him  ;  but  they  never 
knew  how  he  felt  them,  and  shrunk  up,  when 
he  was  alone  with  me.  He  was  far,  far 
timider  than  they  thought!" 

"And  you  were  his  comfort  through  every 
thing?" 

She  nodded,  with  the  tears  rolling  down  her 
face.  "I  hope  so,  and  father  said  I  was.  It 
was  because  he  grew  so  scared  and  trembling, 
and  because  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  poor, 
weak,  ignorant,  helpless  man,  (those  used  to 
be  his  words,)  that  he  wanted  me  so  much  to 
know  a  great  deal  and  be  diflerent  from  him. 
I  used  to  read  to  him  to  cheer  his  courage, 
and  he  was  very  fond  of  that.  They  were 
wrong  books — I  am  never  to  speak  of  them 
here — but  we  didn't  know  there  was  any  harm 
in  them." 

"And  he  liked  them  ?"  said  Louisa,  with  her 
searching  gaze  on  Sissy  all  this  time. 

"0  very  much  1  They  kept  him,  many  times, 
from  what  did  him  real  harm.  And  often  and 
often  of  a  night,  he  used  to  forget  all  his  trou- 
bles in  wondering  whether  the  Sultan  would 
let  the  lady  go  on  with  the  story,  or  would  have 
her  head  cut  off  before  it  was  finished.'' 

"And  your  father  was  always  kind  ?  To  the 
last  ?"  asked  Louisa ;  contravening  the  great 
principle,  and  wondering  very  much. 

"Always,  always!"  returned  Sissy,  clasping 
her  hands.  "Kinder  and  kinder  than  I  can 
tell.  He  was  angry  only  one  night,  and  that 
was  not  to  me,  but  Merrylegs.    Merrylegs ;" 


104 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


she  whispered  the  awful  fact ;  "is  his  perform- 
ing dog." 

"Why  was  he  angry  with  the  dog?"  Louisa 
demanded. 

"Father,  soon  after  they  came  home  from 
performing,  told  Merrylegs  to  jump  up  on  the 
backs  of  the  two  chairs  and  stand  across  them, 
which  is  one  of  his  tricks.  He  looked  at 
father,  and  didn't  do  it  at  once.  Everything 
of  father's  had  gone  wrong  that  night,  and  he 
hadn't  pleased  the  public  at  all.  He  cried  out 
that  the  very  dog  knew  he  was  failing,  and 
had  no  compassion  on  him.  Then  he  beat  the 
dog,  and  I  was  frightened,  and  said — "Father, 
father !  Pray  don't  hurt  the  creature  who  is  so 
fond  of  you !  0  Heaven  forgive  you,  father, 
stop!"  And  he  stopped,  and  the  dog  was 
bloody,  and  father  lay  down  crying  on  the 
floor  with  the  dog  in  his  arms,  and  the  dog 
licked  his  face." 

Louisa  saw  that  she  was  sobbing ;  and  go- 
ing to  her,  kissed  her,  took  her  hand,  and  sat 
down  beside  her. 

"  Finish  by  telling  me  how  your  father  left 
you,  Sissy.  Now  that  I  have  asked  you  so 
much,  tell  me  the  end.  The  blame,  if  there 
is  any  blame,  is  mine :  not  yours." 

"  Dear  Miss  Louisa,"  said  Sissy,  covering 
her  eyes,  and  sobbing  yet ;  "  I  came  home 
from  the  school  that  afternoon,  and  found  poor 
father  just  come  home  too,  from  the  booth. — 
Aud  he  sat  rocking  himself  over  the  fire  as  if 
he  was  iu  pain.  And  I  said,  'Have  you  hurt 
yourself,  father?'  (as  he  did  sometimes,  like 
they  all  did),  and  he  said  *A  little,  my  dar- 
ling.' And  when  I  came  to  stoop  down  and 
look  up  at  his  face,  I  saw  that  he  was  cry- 
ing. The  more  I  spoke  to  him,  the  more 
he  hid  his  face;  and  at  first  he  shook  all 
over,  and  said  nothing  but  'My  darling!'  and 
'  My  love  !'  " 

Here  Tom  came  lounging  in,  and  stared  at 
the  two  with  a  coolness  not  particularly  savor- 
ing of  interest  iu  anything  but  himself,  and  not 
much  of  that  at  present. 

"  I  am  asking  Sissy  a  few  questions,  Tom," 
observed  his  sister.  "  You  have  no  occasion 
to  go  away ;  but  don't  interrupt  us  for  a  mo- 
ment, Tom  dear." 

"  Oh  !  very  well !"  returned  Tom.  "  Only 
father  has  brought  old  Bounderby  home,  and 
I  want  you  to  come  into  the  drawing-room. 
Because  if  you  come,  there's  a  good  chance  of 
old  Bounderby's  asking  me  to  dinner;  and  if 
you  don't,  there's  none." 

"I'll  come  directly." 

"I'll  wait  for  you,"  said  Tom,  "to  make 
sure." 

Sissy  resumed  in  a  lower  voice.  "At  last 
poor  father  said  that  he  had  given  no  satisfac- 
tion again,  and  never  did  give  any  satisfac- 
tion now,  and  that  he  was  a  shame  and 
disgrace,  and  I  should  have  done  better  with- 
out him  all  along.  I  said  all  the  affectionate 
things  to  him  that  came  into  my  heart,  and 
presently  he  was  quiet  and  I  sat  down  by  him, 
and  told  him  all  about  the  school  and  every- 


thing that  had  been  said  and  done  there. 
When  I  had  no  more  left  to  tell,  he  put  his 
arms  round  my  neck,  and  kissed  me  a  great 
many  times.  Then  he  asked  me  to  fetch  some 
of  the  stuff  he  used,  for  the  little  hurt  he  had 
had,  and  to  get  it  at  the  best  place,  which  was 
at  the  other  end  of  town  from  there;  and  then, 
after  kissing  me  again,  he  let  me  go.  When  1 
had  gone  down  stairs,  I  turned  back  that  I 
might  be  a  little  bit  more  company  to  him  yet, 
and  looked  iu  at  the  door,  and  said,  'Father 
dear,  shall  I  take  Merrylegs?'  Father  shook  his 
head  and  said,  'No,  Sissy,  no;  take  nothing 
that's  known  to  be  mine,  my  darling;'  and  I  left 
him  sitting  by  the  fire.  Then  the  thought  must 
have  come  upon  him,  poor,  poor  father!  of  going 
away  to  try  something  for  my  sake;  for.  whea 
I  came  back,  he  was  gone." 

"I  say!  Look  sharp  for  old  Bounderby, 
Loo !"'  Tom  remonstrated. 

"There's  no  more  to  tell,  Miss  Louisa.  I 
keep  the  nine  oils  ready  for  hitn,  and  I  know 
he  will  comeback.  Every  letter  that  I  see  in 
Mr.  Gradgrind's  hand  takes  my  breath  away 
and  blinds  my  eyes,  fo^*  I  think  it  comes  from 
father,  or  from  Mr.  Sleary  about  father,  Mr. 
Sleary  promised  to  write  as  soon  as  ever  father 
should  be  heard  of,  aud  I  trust  to  him  to  keep 
his  word." 

"Do  look  sharp  for  old  Bounderby,  Loo !'' 
said  Tom,  with  an  impatient  whistle.  "  He'll 
be  off,  if  you  don't  look  sharp!'' 

After  this,  whenever  Sissy  dropped  a  curt- 
sey to  Mr.  Gradgrind  in  the  presence  of  hia 
family,  and  said  in  a  faltering  way,  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  sir,  for  being  troublesome — but 
— have  you  had  any  letter  yet  about  me  ?" 
Louisa  would  suspend  the  occupation  of  the 
moment,  whatever  it  was,  and  look  for  the 
reply  as  earnestly  as  Sissy  did.  And  when 
Mr,  Gradgrind  regularly  answered,  "No, 
Jupe,  nothing  of  the  sort,"  the  ti-embling  ot 
Sissy's  lip  would  be  repeated  in  Louisa's  face, 
and  her  eyes  would  follow  Sissy  with  com- 
passion to  the  door.  Mr.  Gradgrind  usually 
improved  these  occasions  by  remarking,  when 
she  was  gone,  that  if  Jupe  had  been  properly 
trained  from  an  early  age,  she  would  have 
demonstrated  to  herself  on  sound  principles 
the  baselessness  of  these  fantastic  hopes. 
Yet  it  did  seem  (though  not  to  him,  for  he 
saw  nothing  of  it),  as  if  fantastic  hope  could 
take  as  strong  a  hold  as  Fact. 

This  observation  must  be  limited  exclusively 
to  his  daughter.  As  to  Tom,  he  was  becoming 
that  not  unprecedented  triumph  of  calcula- 
tion which  is  usually  at  work  on  number  one. 
As  to  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  if  she  said  anything 
on  the  subject,  she  would  come  a  little  way  out 
of  her  wrappers,  like  a  feminine  dormouse,  and 
say: 

"  Good  gracious  bless  me,  how  my  pooi 
head  is  vexed  and  worried  by  that  girl  Jupe's 
so  perseveringly  asking,  over  and  over  again, 
about  her  tiresome  letters  1  Upon  my  word 
and  honor,  I  seem  to  be  fated,  and  destined, 
and  ordained,  to  live  in  the  midst  of  things  that 


HARD  TIMES. 


105 


1  am  never  to  near  the  last  of.  It  really  is  a 
most  extraordinary  circumstance  that  it  ap- 
pears as  if  I  never  was  to  hear  the  last  of  any- 
rhing!" 

At  about  this  point,  Mr.  Gradgrind's  eye 
would  fall  upon  her;  and  under  the  influence 
of  that  wintry  piece  of  fact,  she  would  become 
torpid  again. 


CHAPTER  X. 

I  entertain  a  weak  idea  that  the  English 
people  are  as  hard-worked  as  any  people  upon 
whom  the  sun  shines.  I  acknowledge  to  this 
ridiculous  idiosyncrasy,  as  a  reason  why  I 
would  give  them  a  little  more  play. 

Ill  the  hardest  working  part  of  Ooketown;  in 
the  innermost  fortilications  of  that  ugly  citadel, 
where  Nature  was  as  strongly  bricked  out  as 
killing  airs  and  gases  were  bricked  in  ;  at 
the  heart  of  the  labyrinth  of  narrow  courts 
upon  courts,  and  close  streets  upon  streets, 
which  had  come  into  existence  piecemeal, 
every  piece  iu  a  violent  hurry  for  some  one 
man's  purpose,  and  the  whole  an  unnatural 
family,  shouldering,  and  trampling,  and  press- 
ing one  another  to  death;  in  the  last  close 
nook  of  this  great  exhausted  receiver,  where 
the  chimneys,  for  want  of  air  to  make  a 
draught,  were  built  in  an  immense  variety  of 
stunted  and  crooked  shapes,  as  though  every 
house  put  out  a  sign  of  the  kind  of  people 
who  might  be  expected  to  be  born  in  it ; 
among  tbe  multitude  of  Coketown,  generi- 
cally  called  "  the  Hands," — a  race  who  would 
have  found  more  favor  with  some  people,  if 
Providence  had  seen  fit  to  make  them  only 
hands,  or  like  the  lower  creatures  of  the  sea- 
shore, only  hands  and  stomachs — lived  a 
certain  Stephen  Blackpool,  forty  years  of  age. 

Stephen  looked  older,  but  he  had  had  a  hard 
life.  It  is  said  that  every  life  has  its  roses  and 
thorns;  there  seemed,  however,  to  have  been 
a  misadventure  or  mistake  in  Stephen's 
case,  whereby  somebody  else  had  become 
possessed  ot'  his  roses,  and  he  had  become 
possessed  of  the  same  somebody  else's  thorns 
in  addition  to  his  own.  He  had  known,  to  use 
his  words,  a  peck  of  trouble.  He  was  usually 
called  Old  Stephen,  iu  a  kind  of  rough  homage 
to  the  fact. 

A  rather  stooping  man,  with  a  knitted 
brow,  a  pondering  expression  of  face,  and  a  hard- 
looking  head  sutiiciently  capacious,  on  which 
his  iron-grey  hair  lay  long  and  thin.  Old  Stephen 
might  have  passed  for  a  particularly  intelligent 
man  iu  his  condition.  Yet  he  was  not.  He 
took  no  place  among  those  remarkable 
"Hands,"  who,  piecing  together  their  broken 
intervals  of  leisure  through  many  years,  had 
mastered  difficult  sciences,  and  acquired  a 
knowledge  of  most  unlikely  things.  He  held 
no  station  among  the  Hands  who  could  make 
speeches  and  carry  on  debates.  Thousands  of 
his  compeers  could  talk  much  better  than  he. 
at  any  time.  He  was  a  good  power-loom 
weaver,  and  a  man  of  perfect  integrity     What 


more  he  was,  or  what  else  he  had  in  him,  if 
anything,  let  him  show  for  himself. 

The  lights  in  the  great  factories,  which 
looked,  when  they  were  illuminated,  like  Fairy 
palaces — or  the  travellers  by  express  train 
said  so — were  all  extinguished;  and  the  bells 
had  rung  for  knocking  off  for  the  night,  and 
had  ceased  again;  and  the  hands,  meu  and 
women,  boy  and  girl,  were  clattering  home. 
Old  Stephen  was  standing  in  the  street,  with 
the  odd  sensation  upon  him  which  the  stop- 
page of  the  machinery  always  produced — the 
sensation  of  its  having  worked  and  stopped  in 
his  own  head. 

''Yet  I  don't  see  Rachael,  still  I"  said  he. 

It  was  a  wet  night,  and  many  groups  of 
young  women  passed  him,  with  their  shawls 
drawn  over  their  bare  heads  and  held  close 
under  their  chins  to  keep  the  rain  out.  He 
knew  Rachael  well,  for  a  glance  at  any  one  of 
these  groups  was  sufficient  to  show  him  that 
she  was  not  there.  At  last,  there  were  no 
more  to  come  ;  and  then  he  turned  away,  say- 
ing in  a  tone  of  disappointment,  "Why,  then, 
I  ha'  missed  her  I" 

But,  he  had  not  gone  the  length  of  three 
streets,  when  he  saw  another  of  the  shawled 
figures  in  advance  of  him,  at  which  he  looked 
so  keenly  that  perhaps  its  mere  shadow  indis- 
tinctly reflected  on  the  wet  pavement — if  he 
could  have  seen  it  without  the  figure  it- 
self moving  along  from  lamp  to  lamp,  bright- 
ening and  fading  as  it  went — wuuld  have 
been  enough  to  tell  him  who  was  there — 
Making  his  pace  at  once  much  quicker  and 
much  softer,  he  darted  on  until  he  was  very 
near  this  figure,  then  fell  into  his  former  walk, 
and  called  "  Rachael  1" 

She  turned,  being  then  in  the  brightness  of 
a  lamp  ;  and  raising  her  hood  a  little,  showed 
a  quiet  oval  face,  dark  and  rather  delicate, 
irradiated  by  a  pair  of  very  gentle  eyes,  and 
further  set  off  by  the  perfect  order  of  her  shin- 
ing black  hair.  It  was  not  a  face  iu  its  first 
bloom ;  she  was  a  woman  five  and  thirty  years 
of  age. 

"Ah,  ladl  'Tis  thou?"  when  she  had 
said  this,  with  a  smile  which  would  have  been 
quite  expressed,  though  nothing  of  her  had 
been  seen  but  her  pleasant  eyes,  she  replaced 
her  hood  again,  and  they  went  on  together. 

"I  thought  thou  wast  ahind  me,  Rachael?" 

"No." 

"Early  t'night,  lass?" 

"'Times  I'm  a  little  early,  Stephen;  'times 
a  little  late.  I'm  never  to  be  counted  on, 
going  home." 

"Nor  going  t'other  way,  neither,  't  seems  to 
me,  Rachael?" 

"No,  Stephen." 

He  looked  at  her  with  some  disappoint- 
ment in  his  face,  but  with  a  respectful  and 
patient  conviction  that  she  must  be  right  in 
whatever  she  did.  The  expression  was  not 
lost  upon  her;  she  laid  her  hand  lightly  on 
Lis  arm  a  moment,  as  if  to  thank  him  for  it 

"We  are  such  true  friends,  lad,  and  such  old 


106 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


friends,   and    getting    to  be    such  old  folk, 
now." 

"No,  Rachael,  thou'rt  as  young  as  ever  thou 
wast." 

"One  of  us  would  be  puzzled  how  to  get  old, 
Stephen,  without  t'other  getting  so  too,  both 
being  alive,"  she  answered,  laughing;  "but, 
any  ways,  we're  such  old  friends,  that  t'hide  a 
word  of  honest  truth  fra'one  another  would 
be  a  sin  and  a  pity.  Tis  better  not  to  walk 
too  much  together.  'Times,  yes!  'Twould  be 
hard,  indeed,  if  'twas  not  to  be  at  all,"  she 
said,  with  a  cheerfulness  she  sought  to  com- 
municate to  him. 

"'Tis  hard,  anyways,  Rachael." 

"Try  to  think  not;  and  'twill  seem  better." 

"I've  tried  a  long  time,  and  'ta'nt  got  bet- 
ter. But  thou'rt  right;  'tmight  make  folk  talk, 
even  of  thee.  Thou  hast  been  that  to  me, 
Rachael,  throug'h  so  many  year:  thou  hast  done 
me  so  much  good,  and  heartened  of  me  in 
that  cheering  way:  that  thy  word  is  a  law  to 
me.  Ah,  lass,  and  a  bright  good  law!  Better 
than  some  real  ones." 

"Never  fret  about  them,  Stephen,"  she 
answered  quickly,  and  not  without  an  anxious 
glance  at  his  face.     "Let  the  laws  be." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  slow  nod  or  two. 
"Let  'em  be.  Let  everything  be.  Let  all 
sorts  alone.     'Tis  a  muddle,  and  that's  all." 

"Always  a  muddle  ?"  said  Rachael,  with 
another  gentle  touch  upon  his  arm,  as  if 
to  recall  him  out  of  the  thoughtfulness,  in 
which  he  was  biting  the  long  ends  of  his 
loose  neckerchief  as  he  walked  along.  The 
touch  had  its  instantaneous  effect.  He  let 
them  fall,  turned  a  smiling  face  upon  her,  and 
said,  as  be  broke  intv"*  a  good  humored  laugh, 
"Ay,  Rachael,  lass,  awlus  a  muddle.  That's 
where  I  stick,  I  come  to  the  muddle  many 
times  and  agen,  and  I  never  get  beyond  it." 

They  had  walked  some  distance,  and  were 
near  their  own  homes.  The  woman's  was  the 
first  reached.  It  was  in  one  of  the  many 
small  streets  for  which  the  favorite  under- 
taker (who  turned  a  handsome  sum  out  of 
the  one  poor  ghastly  pomp  of  the  neighbor 
hood)  kept  a  black  ladder,  in  order  that  those 
who  had  done  their  daily  groping  up  and 
down  the  narrow  stairs  might  slide  out  of  this 
working  world  by  the  windows.  She  stopped 
at  the  corner,  and  putting  her  hand  in  his, 
wished  him  good  night. 

"Good  night,  dear  lass;  good  night!" 

She  went,  with  her  neatligure  and  her  sober 
womanly  step,  down  the  dark  street,  and  he 
stood  looking  after  her  until  she  turned  into 
one  of  the  small  houses.  1  here  was  not  a  dut- 
ter  of  her  coarse  shawl,  perhaps,  but  had  its 
interest  in  this  man's  eyes;  not  a  tone  of  her 
voice  but  had  its  echo  in  his  innermost  heart. 

When  she  was  lost  to  his  view,  he  pursued 
his  homeward  way,  glancing  up  sometimes  at 
the  sky,  where  the  clouds  wer<'  sailing  fast 
and  wildly.  But  they  were  broken  now,  and 
the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  mion  shone — 
looking  down  the  high  chimue}o  uf  Cokeiown, 


on  the  deep  furnaces  below,  and  casting  Ti- 
tanic shadows  of  the  steam  engines  at  rest, 
upon  the  walls  where  they  were  lodged.  The 
man  seemed  to  have  brightened  with  the  night, 
as  he  went  on. 

His  home,  in  such  another  street  as  the 
first,  saving  that  it  was  narrower,  was  over  a 
little  shop.  How  it  came  to  pass  that  any 
people  found  it  worth  their  while  to  sell  or 
buy  the  wretched  little  toys,  mixed  up  in  its 
window  with  cheap  newspapers  and  perk 
(there  was  a  leg  to  be  raffled  for  to-morrow 
night),  matters  not  here.  He  took  his  end  of 
candle  from  a  shelf,  lighted  it  at  another  end 
of  candle  on  the  counter,  without  disturbing 
the  mistress  of  the  shop  who  was  asleep  in 
her  little  room,  and  went  up  stairs  into  hia 
lodging. 

It  was  ft  room,  not  unacquainted  with  the 
black  ladder  under  various  tenants  ;  but  as 
neat,  at  present,  as  such  a  room  could  be.  A 
few  books  and  writings  were  on  an  old  bureau 
in  a  corner,  the  furniture  was  decent  and  suf- 
ficient, and,  though  the  atmosphere  was  taint- 
ed, the  room  was  clean. 

Going  to  the  hearth  to  set  the  candle  down 
upon  a  round  three-legged  table  standing 
there,  he  stnmbled  against  something.  As  he 
recoiled,  looking  down  at  it,  it  raised  itself  up 
into  the  form  of  a  woman  in  a  sitting  attitude. 

"Heaven's  mercy,  woman  I"  he  cried,  falling 
farther  off  from  the  figure:  "Hast  thou  come 
back  again!" 

Such  a  woman!  A  disabled,  drunken  crea 
ture,  barely  able  to  preserve  the  sitting  posture 
by  steadying  herself  with  one  begrimed  hand 
on  the  floor,  while  the  other  was  so  purposeless 
in  trying  to  push  away  her  tangled  hair  from 
her  face,  that  it  only  blinded  her  the  more  with 
the  dirt  upon  it.  A  creature  so  foul  to  look 
at,  in  her  tatters,  stains,  and  splashes,  but  so 
much  fouler  than  that  in  her  moral  infamy, 
that  it  was  a  shameful  thing  even  to  see  her. 

After  an  impatient  oaih  or  two,  and  some 
stupid  clawing  of  herself  with  the  hand  not 
necessary  to  her  support,  she  got  her  hair 
away  from  her  eyes  sufficiently  to  obtain  a 
sight  of  him.  Then  she  sat  swajing  her  body 
to  and  fro,  and  making  gestures  with  her  un 
nerved  arm,  which  seemed  intended  as  the  ac- 
companiment to  a  fit  of  laughter,  though  her 
face  was  stolid  and  drowsy. 

"Eigh  lad?  What,  yo'r  there?"  Some  hoarse 
sounds  meant  for  this,  came  mockingly  out  of 
her  at  last;  and  her  head  dropped  forward  on 
her  breast. 

"Back  agen?"  she  screeched,  after  some 
minutes,  as  if  he  I  ail  that  moment  said  it, 
"Yes!  And  back  agen.  Back  agen  ever  and 
ever  so  often.     Back?   Yes,  back.    Why  not?" 

Roused  by  the  unmeaning  violence  with 
which  she  cried  it  out,  she  scrambled  up,  and 
st'iod  supporting  herself  with  her  shoulders 
against  the  wall;  danoling  in  one  hand  by  the 
string,  a  dunghill  fragment  of  a  bonnet,  and 
tr\ing  10  look  scornfully  at  him. 

"I'll  sell  thee  off  again,  and  I'll  sell  thee  off 


HARD  TIMES. 


107 


again,  and  I'll  sell  thee  off  a  score  of  timesi" 
she  cried,  with  something  between  a  furious 
menace  and  an  effort  at  a  defiant  dance. 
"Come  awa'  from  th'  bed!"  He  was  sitting  on 
the  side  of  it,  with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands. 
"Come  awa'  from  't.  'Tis  mine,  and  I've  a 
right  to  'tf 

As  she  staggered  to  it,  he  avoided  her  with 
a  shudder,  and  passed — his  face  still  hidden — 
to  the  opposite  end  of  the  room.  She  threw 
herself  upon  the  bed  heavily,  and  soon  was 
snoring  hard.  He  sunk  into  a  chair,  and  moved 
but  once  all  that  night.  It  was  to  throw  a 
covering  over  her;  as  if  his  hands  were  not 
enough  to  hide  her,  even  in  the  darlcness. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  Fairy  palaces,  burst  out  into  illumina- 
tion, before  pale  morning,  showed  the  mon- 
strous serpents  of  smoke  trailing  themselves 
over  Cokelown.  A  clattering  of  clogs  upon 
the  pavement  ;  a  rapid  ringing  of  bells  5  and 
all  the  melancholy-mad  elephants,  polished 
and  oiled  up  for  the  day's  monotony,  were  at 
their  heavy  exercise  ayain. 

Stephen  bent  over  his  loom,  quiet,  watchful, 
and  steady.  A  special  contrast,  as  every  man 
was  in  the  forest  of  looms  where  Stephen 
worked,  to  the  crashing,  smashing,  tearing 
piece  of  mechanism  at  which  he  labored. — 
Never  fear,  good  people  of  an  anxious  tur!i  of 
nund  thiit  Art  will  consign  Nature  to  oblivion. 
Set  anywhere,  side  by  side,  the  work  of  God 
and  the  work  of  man  ;  and  the  former,  even 
though  it  be  a  troop  of  Hands  of  very  small 
account,  will  gain  in  solemn  dignity  from  the 
Comparison. 

Four  hundred  and  more  Hands  in  this  Mill; 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  horse  Steam  Power,  li 
lo  known,  to  the  force  of  a  single  pound  weight, 
w  .at  ttie  engine  will  do;  but,  not  all  the  calcu- 
lators of  the  National  Debt  can  tell  me  the  ca- 
pacity for  good  or  evil,  for  love  or  hatred,  for 
pAtriotism  or  discontent,  for  the  dec(jmposili(jn 
ot'  virtue  into  vice,  or  the  reverse,  at  any  single 
moment  in  the  soul  of  one  of  these  its  quiet 
servants,  with  the  composed  faces  and  the  regu- 
lated actions.  There  is  no  mysiery  in  it;  there 
is  an  unfathomable  mystery  m  the  meanest  of 
tliem,  for  ever.  Supposing  we  were  to  reserve 
GUI-  arithmetic  for  material  objects,  and  to 
govern  these  awful  unknown  quantities  by  other 
means  1 

The  day  grew  strong,  and  showed  itself 
outside,  even  against  the  Hamiiig  lights  within. 
The  lights  were  turned  out,  and  the  work  went 
on.  The  rain  fell,  and  the  Smoke-serpents, 
submissive  to  the  curse  of  ad  that  tribe,  trailed 
themselves  upon  the  earth.  In  the  waste 
yard  outside,  the  steam  from  the  escape-pipe, 
the  litter  of  barrels  and  old  iron,  the  shining 
heaps  of  coals,  the  ashes  everywhere,  were 
shrouded  in  a  veil  of  mist  and  ram. 

The  work  went  on,  until  the  noon-bell 
rang.     More  clattering  upon  the  pavements. 


The  looms,  and  wheels,  and  Hands,  all  out  of 
gear  for  an  hour. 

Stephen  came  out  of  the  hot  mill  into  the 
damp  wind  and  the  cold  wet  streets,  haggard 
and  worn.  He  turned  from  his  own  class  and 
his  own  quarter,  taking  nothing  but  a  little 
bread  as  he  walked  along,  towards  the  hill  on 
which  his  principal  employer  lived,  in  a  red 
house  with  black  outside  shutters,  green 
inside  blinds,  a  black  street  door,  up  two  white 
steps,  BoDXDEKHY  (in  letters  very  like  him- 
self) upon  a  brazen  plate,  and  a  round  brazen 
door-handle  underneath  it  like  a  brazen  full- 
stop. 

Mr.  Bounderby  was  at  his  lunch.  So  Ste- 
phen had  expected.  Would  his  servant  say 
that  one  of  the  Hands  begged  leave  to  speak 
to  him  ?  Message  in  return,  requiring  name 
of  such  Hand.  Stephen  Blackpool.  There 
was  nothing  troublesome  against  Stephen 
Blackpool;  yes,  he  might  come  in. 

Ste))hen  Blackpool  in  the  parlor.  Mr. 
Bounderby  (whom  he  just  knew  by  sight),  at 
lunch  on  chop  and  sherry.  Mrs.  Sparsit  net- 
ting at  the  tireside,  in  a  side-saddle  attitude, 
with  one  foot  in  a  cotton  stirrup.  It  was  a 
part,  at  once  of  Mrs.  Sparsit's  dignity  and 
service,  not  to  lunch.  fehe  supervised  the 
meal  officially,  but  implied  that  in  her  own 
stately  person  she  considered  lunch  a  weak- 
ness. 

''  Now,  Stephen,"  said  Mr.  Boun  lerbj; 
"what's  the  matter  with  yov  V 

Stephen  made  a  bow.  Not  a  servile  one — 
these  Hands  will  never  do  that  !  Lord  bh'ss 
you,  sir,  you'll  never  catch  them  at  that,  if  they 
have  been  with  you  twenty  years  1 — and,  as 
a  complimentary  toilet  for  Mrs.  Sparsit,  tucked 
his  neckerchief  ends  into  his  waistcoat. 

"Now,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
takin>;  some  sherry,  "we  have  never  had  any 
difficulty  with  you,  and  you  have  never  been 
one  of  the  unreasonable  ones.  You  don't  ex- 
pect to  be  set  up  in  a  coach  and  six,  and  to  be 
fed  on  turtle-soup  and  venison,  with  a  gold 
spoon,  as  a  good  many  of  'em  do  ;"  Mr.  Boun- 
derby always  represented  this  to  be  the  sole, 
immediate,  and  direct  object  of  any  Hand  who 
was  not  entirely  satisfied  ;  "and  therefore  I 
know  already  that  you  have  not  come  here 
to  make  a  complaint.  Now,  you  know,  I  am 
certain  of  that,  before  hand." 

"  No,  sir,  sure  I  ha'  not  coom  for  nowt  o' 
th'  kind." 

Mr.  Bounderby  seemed  agreeably  surprised, 
HOtwithstanding  his  previous  strong  conviction. 
"  Very  well,"  he  returned.  "  You're  a  steady 
Hand,  and  I  was  not  mistaken.  Now,  let  me 
hear  what  it's  all  about.  As  it's  not  that,  let 
me  hear  what  it  is.  What  have  you  got  to  say? 
(Jut  with  it,  lad  I" 

Stephen  happened  to  glance  towards  Mrs. 
Sparsit.  "  I  can  go,  Mr.  Bounderby,  if  you 
wish  it,"  said  that  self-sacrificing  lady,  making 
a  feint  of  taking  her  foot  out  jf  the  stirrup. 

Mr.  Bounderby  staye<l  her,  by  holding  a 
moutliful  of  chop  i-i  suspeuaiou  before  swalf 


108 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


lowing  it,  and  putting  out  his  left  hand. 
Then,  withdrawing  his  hand  and  swallowing 
his  mouthful  of  chop,  he  said  to  Stephen  : 

"Xow,  you  know,  this  good  lady  is  a  born 
lady,  a  high  lady.  You  are  not  to  supp()>e 
because  she  keeps  my  house  for  uie,  thai  she 
hasn't  been  very  high  up  the  tree — ah,  up 
at  the  top  of  the  tree  1  Now,  if  you  have 
got  anything  to  say  that  can't  be  said  before 
a  bora  lady,  this  lady  will  leave  the  room. 
If  wliat  you  have  got  to  say,  can  be  said 
before  a  born  lady,  this  lady  will  stay  vshere 
she  is." 

"  Sir,  I  hope  I  never  had  nowt  to  say 
not  fitten  fur  a  born  L.dy  to  hear,  sin'  I  were 
born  mysen',"  was  the  reply,  accompanied 
with  a  jlight  flush. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  pushing 
away  his  plate,  and  leaning  back.  "  Fire 
away  1" 

"1  ha'  coom,"  Stephen  began,  raising  his 
eyes  from  the  floor,  after  a  moment's  consider- 
ation, "to  ask  yo  yor  advice.  I  need'i  over- 
much. I  were  married  on  a  Eas'r  Mondy 
nineteen  year  sin',  long  and  dree.  She  were  a 
young  lass — pretty  enow — wi'  good  accounts 
ofheroeu'.  Well!  She  went  bad — soon.  Not 
along  of  me.  Gonnows  I  were  not  a  unkind 
husband  to  her." 

"1  have  heard  all  this  before,"  said  Mr. 
Bounderby.  *  She  found  other  companions, 
took  to  drinking,  left  off  working,  sold  the 
furniture,  pawned  the  clothes,  and  placed  old 
(jooseberry.'' 

"1  were  patient  wi'  her." 

("The  m.jre  fool  you,  I  think,"  said  Mr. 
Bouiiderby,  in  confidence  to  his  wine-glass.) 

"I  wert-  vei'y  patient  wi'  tier.  I  tried  to 
wean  her  fra,'t,  uwerand  ower  agen.  I  tried 
ttiis,  I  tried  that,  I  tried  t'oother.  I  ha'  gone 
home  many's  the  time,  and  found  all  vanished 
as  I  had  In  the  world,  and  her  without  a  sense 
lett  to  bless  hersen'  lying  on  bare  ground.  1 
ha'  dunt  not  once,  not  twice — twenty  lime!" 

Every  line  in  his  face  deepened  as  he  said 
it,  and  put  in  its  affecting  evidence  of  the  suf- 
fering he  had  undergone. 

"From  bad  to  worse,  from  worse  to  worse. 
She  left  me.  She  disgraced  hersen'  every- 
ways,  bitter  and  bad.  She  coom  back,  she 
coom  back,  she  coom  back.  What  could 
I  do  t'  hinder  her?  1  ha'  walked  the  stieets 
nights  long,  ere  ever  I'd  go  home.  I  ha'  gone 
t'  th'  brigg,  minded  to  fling  mysen'  ower,  and 
ha'  no  more  on't.  I  ha'  bore  that  much,  that 
1  were  owd  when  I  were  young." 

Mrs.  Sparsit,  easily  ambling  along  with  her 
netting  needles,  raised  the  Coriolanian  eye- 
brows aad  shook  her  head,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  The  great  know  trouble  as  well  as  the  small. 
Please  to  turn  your  humble  eye  in  My  direc- 
tion." 

"  I  ha'  paid  her  to  keep  awa'  fra'  me.  These 
five  year  I  ha'  paid  her.  1  ha'  gotten  decent 
fewtrils  about  me  agen.  I  ha'  lued  hard  and 
sad,  but  not  ashamed  and  t'earf'u'  a'  the  miu- 
aits  o'  my   life.      Last  night,  I  went   hume. 


There  she  lay  upon  my  harston  I  There  she 
is!" 

In  the  strength  of  his  misfortune,  and  the 
energy  of  his  distress,  he  fired  fur  the  moment 
like  a  proud  man.  In  another  moment,  he 
stood  as  he  had  stood  all  the  time — his  usual 
stoop  upon  him  ;  his  pondering  face  addressed 
to  Mr.  Bounderby,  with  a  curiuus  expression 
on  it,  half-shrewd,  hall-perplexed,  as  it  his 
mind  were  set  upon  unravelling  something 
very  dilflcult  ;  his  hat  held  tight  in  his  lelt 
hand,  which  rested  on  his  hip;  his  ri;:hl  arm, 
with  a  rugged  propr  ely  and  force  of  action, 
very  earnestly  emphasisinjr  what  he  said:  nut 
least  so  when  it  always  paused,  a  little  bent, 
but  not  withdrawn,  as  he  paused. 

"1  was  acquainted  with  all  this,  you  know," 
said  Mr.  Buunderby,  "except  the  last  clause, 
long  ago.  It's  a  bad  job  ;  that's  what  it  is. 
Yuu  had  better  have  been  satisfied  as  you 
were,  and  not  have  got  married.  However, 
it's  too  late  to  say  that." 

"Was  it  an  unequal  marriage,  sir,  in  point 
of  years?"  asked  Mr-.  Spar»it. 

"You  hear  what  this  lady  asks.  Was  it  an 
unequal  marriage  in  point  of  years,  this  unlucky 
job  of  yours?"  said  Mr.  Bounderby. 

"Not  e'en  so.  I  was  one-and-tweuty  mysen"; 
she  were  twenty  nighbout." 

"Indeed,  sir?"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit  to  her  Chief, 
v;ith  great  placidity.  "I  inferred,  from  its  be- 
ing so  miserable  a  marriage,  that  it  waa  proba- 
bly an  unequal  one  in  point  of  years."' 

Mr.  Bounderby  looked  very  hard  at  the  good 
lady  in  a  sidelong  way  that  had  an  odd  »heep- 
ishnes.s  about  it.  He  fortified  himoelf  with  a 
little  more  sherry. 

"  Well !  Why  don't  you  go  on  ?"  he  then 
asked,  turning  rather  irritably  on  Stephen 
Blackpool. 

"  1  ha'  coom  to  ask  yo,  sir,  how  I  am  to  be 
ridden  o'  this  woman."  Stephen  infised  a  }et 
deeper  gravity  into  the  mixed  expression  of 
his  attentive  face.  Mrs.  Sparsit  utieri'd  a  gen- 
tle ejaculation,  as  having  received  a  mural 
shock. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  Bounderby, 
getting  up  to  lean  his  baclv  against  the  chim- 
ney-piece. "What  are  you  taliiing  about? 
You  took  her,  for  better  for  worse." 

"I  mun'  be  ridden  o'  her.  I  cannot  bear't 
nommore.  I  ha'  lived  under't  so  long,  tor 
that  I  ha'  had'n  the  pity  and  the  comforting 
words  o'  th'  best  lass  living  or  dead.  Haply, 
but  for  her,  I  should  ha'  gone  buttering  mad." 

"  He  wishes  to  be  free,  to  marry  the  female 
of  whom  he  speaks,  I  fear,  sir,"  obsei-ved  Mrs. 
Sparsit  in  an  under-toue,  and  much  dejected 
by  the  immorality  of  the  people. 

"1  do.  Ihe  lady  says  what's  right.  I  do. 
I  were  a  coming  to't.  I  ha'  read  i'  th'  papers 
that  great  fuk  (fair  faw  'em  a'l  I  wishes  'em 
no  hurt!)  are  not  bonded  together  for  better 
fur  worse  so  fast,  but  that  they  can  be  set  free 
tra'  their  mistbrtnet  marriages,  and  marry 
ower  agen.  When  ihey  dunnot  agree,  fur  that 
their  tempers  is  ill-sorted,  they  have   rooms  o) 


HARD  TIMES. 


109 


one  kind  an'  another  in  their  houses,  and  they 
can  live  asunders.  We  fok  ha'  only  one  room, 
and  we  can't.  When  that  won't  ^,  they  ha' 
gowd  and  other  cash,  and  they  can  say,  'This 
for  yo,  and  that  for  me,'  and  they  can  go  their 
separate  ways.  We  can't.  Spite  o'  all  that, 
they  can  be  set  free  for  smaller  wrongs  than 
is  sufiPered  by  hundreds  an'  hundreds  of  us — 
by  women  fur  more  than  men — they  can  be 
set  free  for  smaller  wrongs  than  mine.  So,  I 
mun  be  ridden  o'  this  wife  o'  mine,  and  I  want 
t'  know  howV" 

"No  how,"  returned  Mr.  Bounderby. 

''If  I  do  her  any  hurt,  sir,  there's  a  law  to 
punish  me?" 

"Of  course  there  is." 

"If  I  flee  from  her,  there's  a  law  to  punish 
me?" 

"Of  course  there  is." 

"If  I  marry  t'oother  dear  lass,  there's  a  law 
to  punish  me!" 

"Of  course  there  is." 

"If  I  was  to  live  wi'  her  an'  not  marry  her — 
saying  such  a  thing  could  be,  which  it  never 
could  or  would,  an'  her  so  good — there's  a  law 
to  punish  me,  in  every  innocent  chilt  belong- 
ing to  me?" 

"Of  course  there  is." 

"Now,  a'  God's  name,"  said  Stephen  Black- 
pool, '"show  me  the  law  to  help  mel" 

"There's  a  sanctity  in  this  relation  of  life," 
said  Mr.  Bouuderby,  "and — and — it  must  be 
kept  up." 

'"No  no,  dunnot  say  that,  sir.  'Tan't  kep'  up 
that  way.  Not  that  way.  'Tis  kep'  down  that 
way.  I'm  a  weaver,  I  were  in  a  tact'ry  when 
a  chilt,  but  I  ha'  gotten  een  to  see  wi'  and  eeru 
to  hear  wi'.  I  read  in  th' papers,  every  "Sizes, 
every  Sessions — and  you  read  too — I  know  it ! 
with  dismay — how  th'  uupossibility  o'  ever 
getting  unchained  from  one  another,  at  any 
price,  on  any  terms,  brings  blood  upon  this 
laud,  and  brings  many  common  married 
fok  (agen  I  say,  women  fur  of'ener  than 
men  )  to  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death. 
Let  us  ha'  this,  right  understood.  Mine's  a 
grievous  case,  an'  I  want — if  yo  will  be  so 
good — t'  know  the  law  that  helps  me." 

"Now,  I  tell  you  what!"  said  Mr.  Bounder- 
by, putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "There 
is  such  a  law." 

Stephen,  subsiding  into  his  quiet  manner,  and 
never  wandering  in  his  attention,  gave  a  nod. 

"But  it"s  not  tor  you  at  all.  It  costs  money. 
It  costs  a  mint  of  money." 

How  much  might  that  be?  Stephen  calmly 
asked. 

"Why,  you'd  have  to  go  to  Doctors'  Com- 
mons with  a  suit,  and  you'd  have  to  go  to  a 
court  of  Common  Law  with  a  suit,  and  you'd 
have  to  go  to  the  House  of  Lords  with  a  suit, 
and  you'd  have  to  get  an  Act  of  Parliament 
to  enable  you  to  marry  again,  and  it  would 
cost  you  (ii  it  was  a  case  ol  very  p'ain-sailing), 
I  suppose  from  a  thousand  to  tit'teeii  hundred 
pound,"  said  Mr,  Bouncerby.  "Perhaps  twice 
the  mouev."' 


"There's  no  other  law?" 

"Certaiuly  not." 

"Why  then,  sir,"  said  Stephen,  turning  white, 
and  motioning  with  that  right  hand  of  bis,  as 
if  he  gave  everything  to  the  four  winds,  "'//*'  a 
muddle.  'Tis  just  a  muddle  a'toogether,  an' 
the  sooner  I  am  dead,  the  better." 

(Mrs.  Sparsit  again  dejected  by  the  impiety 
of  the  people.) 

"Pooh,  pooh!  Don't  you  talk  nonsense,  my 
good  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  "about 
things  you  don't  undt-rstand;  and  don't  you  call 
the  Institutions  of  your  country  a  muddle,  or 
you'll  get  yourself  into  a  real  muddle  one  of 
these  tiue  mornings.  The  Institutions  of  your 
country  are  not  your  piecework,  and  the  only 
thing  you  have  got  to  do,  is,  to  mind  your 
piece-work.  You  didn't  take  your  wife  for  fast 
and  for  loose;  but  for  better  for  worse.  If  she 
has  turned  out  worse — why,  all  we  have  got  to 
say  is,  she  might  have  turned  out  better." 

''  'Tis  a  muddle,"  said  Stephen,  shaking  his 
head  as  he  moved  to  the  door.  "Tis  'a  a  mud- 
dle!" 

"Now,  I'll  tell  you  what!"  Mr.  Boundf-rby 
resumed,  as  a  valedictory  address.  "  With 
what  I  shall  call  your  unhallowed  opinions, 
you  have  been  quite  shocking  this  lady  :  who, 
as  I  have  already  told  you,  is  a  born  lady, 
and  who,  as  I  have  not  already  told  you,  has 
had  her  own  marriage  misfortunes  to  the 
tune  of  tens  of  thousands  of  pounds — tens  ot 
Thou-sands  of  Pounds  !''  (he  repeated  it  with 
great  relish.)  "Now,  you  have  always  been 
a  steady  Hand  hitherto ;  but  my  opinion  is, 
and  so  1  tell  you  plainly,  that  you  are  turning 
into  the  wrong  road.  You  have  been  listen- 
ing to  some  mischievous  stranger  or  other — 
they're  always  about — and  the  best  thing  you 
can  do  is,  to  come  out  of  that.  Now,  yuu  un- 
derstand :"  here  his  countenance  expressed 
marvellous  acuteness  ;  "I  can  see  as  tar  into  a 
grindstone  as  another  man ;  farther  than  a 
goud  many,  perhaps,  because  I  had  my  nose 
well  kept  to  it  when  I  was  young.*  I  see  traces  ' 
of  the  turtle  soup,  and  venison,  and  gold  spoon  ! 
in  this.-*  Yes,  I  do ! '  cried  Mr.  Bounderby,  i 
shaking  his  head  with  obstinate  cunning.  "By 
the  Lord  Harry,  I  do !" 

AV'ith  a  very  different  shake  of  the  head, 
and  a  deep  sigh,  Stephen  said,  "Thank  you, 
sir,  I  wish  .you  good  day."  So,  he  left  Mr. 
Bounderby  swelling  at  his  own  portrait  on  the 
wall,  as  if  he  were  going  to  explode  himselt 
into  it;  and  Mrs.  Sparsit  still  ambling  on  with 
her  foot  in  her  stirrup,  looking  quite  cast 
down  by  the  popular  vices. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

Old  Stephen  descended  the  two  white  steps, 
shutting  the  black  door  with  the  brazen  door- 
plate,  by  the  aid  of  the  brazen  full-stop,  to 
which  he  gave  a  parting  polish  with  the  sleeve 
of  his  coat,  observing  that  his  hot  nand  cloud- 
ed it.  He  crossed  the  street  with  his  e\c.s 
bent  upon  the  ground,  and  thus  was  walking 


iia 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


sorrowfully  away,  when  lie  felt  a  touch  upon 
his  arm. 

It  was  not  the  touch  he  needed  most  at  such 
a  moment  —  the  touch  that  could  calm  the 
wild  waters  of  his  soul,  as  the  uplifted  hand 
of  the  sublimest  love  and  patience  could  abate 
the  raging  of  the  sea — yet  it  was  a  woman's 
hand  too.  It  was  an  old  woman,  tall  and 
shapely  still,  though  withered  by  Time,  on 
whom  his  eyes  fell  when  he  stopped  and  turned. 
She  was  very  cleanly  and  plainly  dressed, 
had  country  mud  ufon  her  shoes,  and  was 
newly  come  from  a  journey.  The  flutter  of 
her  manner,  in  the  unwonted  noise  of  the 
streets;  the  spare  shawl,  carried  unfolded  on 
her  arm;  the  heavy  umbrella,  and  little 
basket;  the  loose  long-fingered  gloves,  to  which 
her  hands  were  unused;  all  bespoke  an  old 
woman  from  the  country,  in  her  plain  holiday 
clothes,  come  into  Coketown  on  an  expedition 
of  rare  occurrence.  Remarking  this  at  a 
glance,  with  the  quick  observation  of  his  class, 
ytephen  Blackpool  bent  his  attentive  face — 
his  face,  which,  like  the  faces  of  many  of  his 
order,  by  dint  of  long  working  with  eyes  and 
hands  in  the  midst  of  a  prodigious  noise,  had 
acquired  the  concentrated  look  with  which  we 
are  familiar  in  the  countenances  of  the  deaf — 
the  better  to  hear  what  she  asked  him. 

"Pray,  sir,"  said  the  old  woman,  "did'nt  I 
see  you  come  out  of  that  gentleman's  house  ?" 
pointing  back  to  Mr.  Bounderby's.  "I  believe 
it  was  you,  unless  I  have  had  the  bad  luck  to 
mistake  the  person  in  following?" 

"Yes,  missus,"  returned  Stephen,  "it  were 
me." 

"Have  you — you'll  excuse  an  old  woman's 
curiosity — have  you  seen  the  gentleman?" 

"Yes,  missus.'' 

"And  how  did  he  look,  sir?  "Was  he 
portly,  bold,  outspoken,  hearty?"  As  she 
straightened  her  own  figure,  and  held  up 
her  head  in  adapting  her  action  to  her  words, 
the  idea  crossed  Stephen  that  he  had  seen 
this  old  woman  before,  and  had  not  quite  liked 
her. 

"  0  yes,"  he  returned,  observing  her  more 
attentively,  "  he  were  all  that." 

"And  healthy,"  said  the  old  woman,  "as 
the  fresh  wind?" 

"  Yes,"  returned  Stephen.  "He  were  ett'n 
and  drinking — as  large  and  as  loud  as  a  Hum- 
mobee." 

"  Thank  you  1"  said  the  old  woman  with  in- 
finite content.     "  Thank  you  !" 

He  certainly  never  had  seen  this  old  woman 
before.  Yet  there  was  a  vague  remembrance 
in  his  mind,  as  if  he  had  more  than  once 
dreamed  of  some  old  woman  like  her. 

She  walked  along  at  his  side,  and,  gently  ac- 
commodating himself  to  her  humor,  he  said 
Coketown  was  a  busy  place,  was  it  not?  To 
which  she  answered,  "Eigh  surel  Dreadful 
bus)'!"  Then  he  said,  she  came  from  the 
country,  he  saw?  To  which  she  answered  in 
the  affirmative. 

"By  Parliamentary,  this  morning.     I  came 


forty  mile  by  Parliamentary  this  morning,  and 
I'm  goin^back  the  same  forty  mile  this  afte^ 
noon.  iT^alked  nine  miles  to  the  station  this 
morning,  and  if  I  find  nobody  on  the  road  to 
give  me  a  lift,  I  shall  walk  the  nine  mile  back 
to  night.  That's  pretty  well,  sir,  at  my  age!" 
said  the  chatty  old  woman,  her  eyes  brighten- 
ing with  exultation. 

"Deed  'tis.  Don't  do  't  too  often,  missus." 
"No,  no.  Once  a  year,"  she  answered, 
shaking  her  head.  "I  spend  my  savings  so, 
once  every  year.  I  come,  regular,  to  tramp 
about  the  streets,  and  see  the  gentlemen." 
"Only  to  see  'em?"  returned  Stephen. 
"That's  enough  for  me,"  she  replied,  with 
great  earnestness  and  interest  of  manner.  "I 
ask  no  more!  I  have  been  standing  about,  on 
this  side  of  the  way,  to  see  that  gentleman," 
turning  her  head  back  towards  Mr.  Bounder- 
by's again,  "come  out.  But,  he's  late  this  year, 
and  I  have  not  seen  him.  You  came  out,  in- 
stead. Now,  if  I  am  obliged  to  go  back  without  a 
glimpse  of  him — I  only  want  a  glimpse — well!  I 
have  seen  you,  and  you  have  seen  him,  and  I 
must  make  that  do."  Saying  this,  she  looked  at 
Stephen  as  if  to  fix  his  features  in  her  mind, 
and  her  eyes  were  not  so  bright  as  they  had 
been. 

With  a  large  allowance  for  difference  ot 
tastes,  and  with  all  submission  to  the  patricians 
of  Coketown,  this  seemed  so  extraordinary  a 
source  of  interest  to  take  so  much  trouble 
about,  that  it  perplexed  him.  But  they  were 
passing  the  church  now,  and  as  his  eye  caught 
the  clock,  he  quicken -d  his  pace. 

He  was  going  to  his  work  ?  the  old  woman 
said,  quickening  hers,  too,  quite  easily.  Yes, 
time  was  nearly  out.  On  his  telling  her  where 
he  worked,  the  old  woman  became  a  more  sin- 
gular old  woman  than  before. 

"Ain't  you  happy  ?"'  she  asked  him. 
"Why — there's — awmost  nobbody  but  has 
their  troubles;  missus."  He  answered  eva- 
sively, because  the  old  woman  appeaed  to 
take  it  for  granted,  that  he  would  be  very  hap- 
py indeed,  and  he  had  not  the  heart  to  disap- 
point her.  He  knew  that  there  was  trouble 
enough  in  the  world;  and  if  the  old  woman  had 
lived  so  long,  and  could  count  upon  his  having 
so  little,  why  so  much  the  better  for  her,  and 
none  the  worse  for  him. 

"Ay,  ay  I  You  have  your  troubles  at  home, 
you  mean?"  she  said. 

"Times.  Just  now  and  then,"  he  answered 
slightly. 

"But,  working  under  such  a  gentleman,  they 
don't  follow  you  to  the  Factory  ?" 

No,  no;  they  didn't  follow  him  there,  said 
Stephen.  All  correct  there.  Everything  ac- 
cordant there.  (He  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  say, 
for  her  pleasure,  that  there  was  a  sort  of  Divine 
Right  there;  but,  I  have  heard  claims  almost  as 
magnificent  of  late  years.) 

They  were  now  in  the  black  bye-road  near 
the  place,  and  the  Hands  were  crowding  in. 
The  bell  was  ringing,  and  the  Serpent  was  a 
Serpent  of  many  coils,  and  the  Elephant   vva.i 


HARD  TIMES. 


Ill 


getting  ready.  The  strange  old  woman  was 
delighted  with  the  very  bell.  ]  t  wjl^lre  beauti- 
fullest  bell  she  had  ever  heard,  she  said,  and 
sounded  grand ! 

She  asked  him,  when  he  stopped,  good  na- 
turedly,  to  shake  hands  with  her  before  going 
in,  how  long  he  had  worked  there  ? 

"  A  dozen  year,"  he  told  her. 

"  I  must  kiss  the  hand,"  said  she,  "  that  has 
worked  in  this  fine  factory  for  a  dozen  year!" 
And  she  lifted  it,  though  he  would  have  pre- 
vented her,  and  put  it  to  her  lips.  What  har- 
mony, besides  her  age  and  her  simplicity,  sur- 
rounded her,  he  did  not  know,  but  even  in  this 
fantastic  action  there  was  a  something  neither 
out  of  time  nor  place ;  a  something  which  it 
seemed  as  if  nobody  else  could  have  made  as 
serious,  or  done  with  such  a  natural  and 
touching  air. 

He  had  been  at  his  loom  full  half  an  hour, 
thinking  about  this  old  woman,  when,  having 
occasion  to  move  round  the  loom  for  its  ad- 
justment, he  glanced  through  a  window  which 
was  in  his  corner,  and  saw  her  still  looking  up 
at  the  pile  of  building,  lost  in  admiration. 
Heedless  of  the  smoke,  and  mud  and  wet,  and 
of  her  two  long  journeys,  she  was  gazing  at  it, 
as  if  the  heavy  thrum  thatissued  from  its  many 
stories  were  proud  music  to  her. 

She  was  gone  by  and  by,  and  the  day  went 
after  her,  and  the  lights  sprung  up  again,  and 
the  Express  whirled  in  full  sight  of  the  Fairy 
Palace  over  the  arches  near;  little  felt  amid  the 
jarring  of  the  machinery,  and  scarcely  heard 
above  its  crash  and  rattle.  Long  before  then, 
his  thoughts  had  gone  back  to  the  dreary  room 
above  the  little  shop,  and  to  the  shameful  figure 
heavy  on  the  bed,  but  heavier  on  his  heart. 

Machinery  slackened  ;  throbbing  feebly  like 
a  fainting  pulse  ;  stopped.  The  bell  again  ; 
the  glare  of  light  and  heat  dispelled  ;  the  fac- 
tories, looming  heavy  in  the  black  wet  night ; 
their  tall  chimneys  rising  up  into  the  air  like 
competing  Towers  of  Babel. 

He  had  spoken  to  Rachael  only  last  night,  it 
was  true,  and  had  walked  with  her  a  little  way; 
but  he  had  his  new  misfortune  on  him,  in  which 
no  one  else  could  give  him  a  moment's  relief, 
and,  for  the  sake  of  it,  and  because  he  knew 
himself  to  want  that  softening  of  his  anger 
which  no  voice  but  hers  could  effect,  he  felt 
he  might  so  far  disregard  what  she  had  said 
as  to  wait  for  her  again.  He  waited,  but  she 
had  eluded  him.  She  was  gone.  On  no  other 
night  in  the  year,  could  he  so  ill  have  spared 
her  patient  face. 

0  !  Better  to  have  no  home  in  which  to  lay 
his  head,  than  to  have  a  home  and  dread  to 
^0  to  it,  through  such  a  cause.  He  ate  and 
drank,  lor  he  was  exhausted — but,  he  little 
knew  or  cared  what ;  and  he  wandered  about 
in  the  chill  rain,  thinking  and  thinking,  and 
brooding  and  brooding. 

No  word  of  a  new  marriage  had  ever 
passed  between  them  ;  but  Rachael  had  taken 
great  pity  on  him  years  ago,  and  to  her 
alone  he  had  opeued  his   closed  heart  all  this 


time,  on  the  subject  of  his  miseries ;  and  he 
knew  very  well  that,  if  he  were  free  to  ask 
her,  she  would  take  him.  He  thought  of  the 
home  he  might  at  that  moment  have  been 
seeking  with  pleasure  and  pride ;  of  the 
different  man  he  might  have  been  that  night ; 
of  the  lightness  then  in  his  now  heavy-laden 
breast;  of  the  then  restored  honor,  self- 
respect,  and  tranquillity,  now  all  torn  to 
pieces.  He  thought  of  the  waste  of  the  best 
part  of  his  life,  of  the  change  it  made  in  his 
character  for  the  worse  every  way,  of  the 
dreadful  nature  of  his  existence,  bound  hand 
and  foot  to  a  dead  woman,  and  tormented  by 
a  demon  in  her  shape.  He  thought  of 
Rachael,  how  young  when  they  were  first 
brought  together  in  these  circumstances,  how 
mature  now,  how  soon  to  grow  old.  He 
thought  of  the  number  of  girls  and  women 
she  had  seen  marry,  how  many  homes  with 
children  in  them  she  had  seen  grow  up 
around  her,  how  she  had  contentedly  pursued 
her  own  lone  quiet  path — for  him — and  how 
he  had  sometimes  seen  a  shade  of  melancholy 
on  her  blessed  face,  that  smote  him  with  re- 
morse and  despair.  He  set  the  picture  of  her 
up,  beside  the  infamous  image  of  last  night ; 
and  thought.  Could  it  be,  that  the  whole 
earthly  course  of  one  so  gentle,  good,  and  self- 
denying,  was  subjugate  to  such  a  wretch  as 
that  1 

Filled  with  these  thoughts — so  filled  that 
he  had  an  unwholesome  sense  of  growing 
larger,  of  being  placed  in  some  new  and  dis- 
eased relation  towards  the  objects  among  which 
he  passed,  of  seeing  the  iris  around  every  misty 
light  turn  red — he  went  home  for  shelter. 


CHAPTER  XIIl. 

A  candle  faintly  burned  in  the  window,  to 
which  the  black  ladder  had  often  been  raised 
for  the  sliding  away  of  all  that  was  most  pre- 
cious in  this  world  to  a  striving  wife  and  a 
brood  of  hungry  babies  ;  and  Stephen  added 
to  his  other  thoughts  the  stern  refiection,  that 
of  all  the  casualties  of  this  existence  upon 
earth,  not  one  was  dealt  out  with  so  unequal 
a  hand  as  Death.  The  inequality  of  Birth 
was  nothing  to  it.  For,  say  that  the  child  of 
a  King  and  the  child  of  a  Weaver  were  born 
to-night  in  the  same  moment,  what  was  that 
disparity,  to  the  death  of  any  human  creature 
who  was  serviceable  to,  or  beloved  by,  another, 
while  this  abandoned  woman  lived  on  ! 

From  the  outside  of  his  home  he  gloomily 
passed  to  the  inside,  with  suspended  breath 
and  with  a  slow  footstep.  He  went  up  to  his 
door,  opened  it,  and  so  into  the  room. 

Quiet  and  peace  were  there.  Rachael  was 
there,  sitting  by  the  bed. 

She  turned  her  head,  and  the  light  of  her 
face  shone  in  upon  the  midnight  oi  his  mind. 
She  sat  by  the  bed,  watching  and  tending  his 
wife.  That  is  to  say,  he  saw  that  some  one 
lay  there,  and  he  knew  too  well  it  must  be 
she  ;  but   Rachael's    hands  had  put  a  curtain 


112 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


up,  so  ttat  she  was  screened  from  his  eyes. 
Her  disgraceful  garments  were  removed,  and 
some  of  Rachael's  were  in  the  room.  Every- 
thing was  in  its  place  and  order  as  he  had 
always  kept  it,  the  little  fire  was  newly 
trimmed,  and  the  hearth  was  freshly  swept. 
It  appeared  to  him  that  he  saw  all  this  in  Ra- 
chael's face,  and  looked  at  nothing  besides. — 
While  looking  at  it,  it  was  shut  out  from  his 
view  by  the  softened  tears  that  filled  his  eyes; 
but,  not  before  he  had  seen  how  earnestly  she 
looked  at  him,  and  how  her  own  eyes  were 
filled  too. 

She  turned  again  towards  the  bed,  and  satis- 
fying herself  that  all  was  quiet  there,  spoke  in 
alow,  calm,  cheerful  voice. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come  at  last,  Stephen. 
You  are  very  late." 

"I  ha'  been  walking  up  an'  down." 

"I  thought  so.  But  'tis  too  bad  a  night  for 
that.  The  rain  falls  very  heavy,  and  the  wind 
has  risen." 

The  wind?  True.  It  was  blowing  hard. 
Hark  to  the  thundering  in  the  chimney,  and 
the  surging  noise  I  To  have  been  out  in  such 
a  wind,  and  not  to  have  known  it  was  blow- 
ing ! 

•'  I  have  been  here  once  before,  to-day,  Ste- 
phen. Landlady  came  round  for  me  at  dinner- 
time. There  was  some  one  here  that  needed 
looking  to,  she  said.  And  'deed  she  was  right. 
All  wandering  and  lost,  Stephen.  Wounded 
too,  and  bruised." 

He  slowly  moved  to  a  chair  and  sat  down, 
drooping  his  head  before  her. 

"  I  came  to  do  what  little  I  could,  Stephen ; 
first,  for  that  she  worked  with  me  when  we 
were  girls  both,  and  for  that  you  courted  her 
and  married  her  when  I  was  her  friend — " 

He  laid  his  furrowed  forehead  on  his  hand, 
with  a  low  groan. 

"  And  next,  for  that  I  know  your  heart,  and 
am  right  sure  and  certain  that  'tis  far  too  mer- 
ciful to  let  her  die,  or  even  so  much  as  suffer, 
for  want  of  aid.  Thou  knowest  who  said,  'Let 
him  who  is  without  sin  among  you,  cast  the 
first  stone  at  her!'  There  have  been  plenty  to 
do  that.  Thou  art  not  the  man  to  cast  the  last 
stone,  Stephen,  when  she  is  brought  so  low." 

"  0  Rachael,  Rachael  I" 

"  Thou  hast  been  a  cruel  sufiferer.  Heaven 
reward  thee  !"  she  said,  in  compassionate  ac- 
cents. "  I  am  thy  poor  friend,  with  all  my 
heart  and  mind." 

The  wounds  of  which  she  had  spoken,  seem- 
ed to  be  about  the  neck  of  the  self  made  out- 
cast. She  dressed  them  now,  still  without 
showing  her.  She  steeped  a  piece  of  linen  in 
a  basin,  into  which  she  poured  some  liquid 
from  a  bottle,  and  laid  it  with  a  gentle  hand 
upon  the  sore.  The  three-legged  table  had 
been  drawn  close  to  the  bedside,  and  on  it 
there  were  two  bottles.     This  was  one. 

It  was  not  so  far  off,  but  that  Stephen,  fol- 
lowing h(-r  liands  with  his  eyes,  could  read 
what  was  primed  on  it,  in  large   letters.     He 


turned  of  a  deadly  hue,  and  a  sudden  horror 
seemed  tOj^ll  upon  him. 

"I  will  stay  here,  Stephen,"  said  Rachael, 
quietly  resuming  her  seat,  "till  the  bells  go 
Three.  'Tis  to  be  done  again  at  three,  and 
then  she  may  be  left  till  morning." 

"  But  thy  rest  agen  to-morrow's  work,  my 
dear." 

"I  slept  sound,  last  night.  I  can  wake  many 
nights,  when  I  am  put  to  it.  'Tis  thou  who 
art  in  need  of  rest — so  white  and  tired.  Try 
to  sleep  in  the  chair  there,  while  I  watch. 
Thou  hadst  no  sleep  last  night,  I  can  well  be- 
lieve. To-morrow's  work  is  far  harder  for  thee 
than  for  me." 

He  heard  the  thundering  and  surging  out 
of  doors,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  late 
angry  mood  were  going  about  trying  to  get 
at  him.  She  had  cast  it  out  5  she  would, 
keep  it  out ;  he  trusted  to  her  to  defend  him 
from  himself. 

"She  don't  know  me,  Stephen;  she  just 
drowsily  mutters  and  stares.  I  have  spoken 
to  her  times  and  again,  but  she  don't  notice  I 
'Tis  as  well  so.  When  she  comes  to  her  right 
mind  once  more,  I  shall  have  done  what  I  can, 
and  she  never  the  wiser." 

"How  long,  Rachael,  is't  looked  for,  that 
she'll  be  so?" 

"  Doctor  said  she  would  haply  come  to  her 
mind  to-morrow." 

His  eyes  again  fell  on  the  bottle,  and  a 
tremble  passed  over  him,  causing  him  to 
shiver  in  every  limb.  She  thought  he  was 
chilled  with  the  wet.  "No,"  he  said;  "it 
was  not  that.  He  had  had  a  fright." 
"A  fright?" 

"  Ay,  ay  I  coming  in.  When  I  were  walk- 
ing, when  I  were  thinking.  When  I — "  It 
seized  him  again  ;  and  he  stood  up,  holding 
by  the  mantel-shelf,  as  he  pressed  his  dank  cold 
hair  down  with  a  hand  that  shook  as  if  it  were 
palsied. 

"  Stephen  !" 

She  was  coming  to  him,  but  he  stretched  out 
his  arm  to  stop  her. 

"  No !  Don't  please ;  don't !  Let  me  see 
thee  setten  by  the  bed.  Let  me  see  thee,  a'  so 
good,  and  so  forgiving.  Let  me  see  thee  as  I 
see  thee  when  I  coom  in.  1  can  never  see  thee 
better  than  so.     Never,  never,  never!" 

He  had  a  violent  fit  of  trembling,  and  then 
sunk  into  his  chair.  After  a  time  he  con- 
trolled himself,  and  resting  with  an  elbow 
on  one  knee,  and  his  head  upon  that  hand, 
could  look  towards  Rachael.  Seen  across 
the  dim  candle  with  his  moistened  eyes,  she 
looked  as  if  she  had  a  glory  shining  round 
her  head.  He  could  have  believed  she  had. 
He  did  believe  it,  as  the  noise  without  shook 
the  window,  rattled  at  the  door  below,  and 
went  about  the  house  clamoring  and  la- 
menting. 

"When  she  gets  better,  Stephen,  'tis  to    be 
hoped  she'll  leave  rhee  to    thyself  a'^ain,    and 
I  do  thee  no  mure  hurt.     Anyways  we  will  ho,'e 


HARD  TIMES. 


113 


(»o  now.  And  now  I  shall  keep  silence,  for  I 
want  thee  to  sleep." 

He  closed  his  eyes,  more  to  please  her  than 
to  rest  his  weary  head ;  but,  by  slow  degrees 
as  he  listened  to  the  great  noise  of  the  wind, 
he  ceased  to  hear  it,  or  it  changed  into  the 
working  of  his  loom,  or  even  into  the  voices  of 
the  day  (his  own  included)  saying  what  had 
been  really  said.  Even  this  imperfect  conscious- 
ness faded  away  at  last,  and  he  dreamed  a 
long,  troubled  dream. 

He  thought  that  he,  and  some  one  on  whom 
his  heart  had  long  been  set — but  she  was  not 
Rachael,  and  that  surprised  him,  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  imaginary  happiness — stood  in 
the  church  being  married.  While  the  cere- 
mony was  performing,  and  while  he  recog- 
nised among  the  witnesses  some  whom  he 
knew  to  be  living,  and  many  whom  he  knew 
to  be  dead,  darkness  came  on,  succeeded  by 
the  shining  of  a  tremendous  light.  It  broke 
from  one  line  in  the  table  of  commandments 
at  the  altar,  and  illuminated  the  building  with 
the  words.  They  were  sounded  through  the 
church,  too,  as  if  there  were  voices  in  the  fiery 
letters.  Upon  this,  the  whole  appearance 
before  him  and  around  him  changed,  and 
nothing  was  left  as  it  had  been,  but  himself 
and  the  clergyman.  They  stood  in  the  day- 
light before  a  crowd  so  vast,  that  if  all  the 
people  in  the  world  could  have  been  brought 
together  into  one  space,  they  could  not  have 
looked,  he  thought  nore  numerous ;  and 
they  all  abhorred  bin  .  and  there  was  not  one 
pitying  or  friendly  tye  among  the  millions 
thai  were  fastened  on  his  face.  He  stood  un 
a  raised  stage,  under  his  own  loom  ;  and,  look- 
ing up  at  the  shape  the  loom  took,  and  hear- 
ing the  burial  service  distinctly  read,  he  knew 
that  he  was  there  to  suffer  death.  In  an  in- 
stant what  he  stood  on  fell  below  him,  and  he 
was  gone. 

Out  of  what  mystery  he  came  back  to  his 
usual  life,  and  to  places  that  he  knew,  he  was 
unable  to  consider;  but,  he  was  back  in  those 
places  by  some  means,  and  with  this  condem- 
nation upon  him,  that  he  was  never,  in  this 
world  or  the  next,  through  all  the  unimaginable 
ages  of  eternity,  to  look  on  Rachael's  face  or 
hear  her  voice.  Wandering  to  and  fro,  un- 
ceasingly, without  hope,  and  in  search  of  he 
knew  not  what  (he  only  knew  that  he  was 
doomed  to  seek  it),  he  was  the  subject  of  a 
nameless,  horrible  dread,  a  mortal  fear  of 
one  particular  shape  which  everything  took. 
Whatsoever  he  looked  at,  grew  into  that  form 
sooner  or  later.  The  object  of  his  miseraljle 
existence  was  to  prevent  its  recognition  by 
any  one  among  the  various  people  he  encoun- 
tered. Hopeless  labor!  If  he  led  them  out  of 
rooms  where  it  was,  if  he  shut  up  drawers  and 
closets  where  it  stood,  if  he  drew  the  curious 
from  places  where  he  knew  it  to  be  secreted, 
and  gotthemout  into  the  streets,  the  very  chim- 
neys of  the  mills  a.-ssumed  that  shape,  and  round 
Ihein  was  the  printed  word. 

The  wind  was  blowing  again,  the  rain  was 


beating  on  the  housetops,  and  the  larger 
spaces  through  which  he  had  strayed  con- 
tracted to  the  lour  walls  of  his  room.  Saving 
that  the  fire  had  died  out,  it  was  as  his  eyes 
had  closed  upon  it.  Rachael  seemed  to  have 
fallen  into  a  doze,  in  the  chair  by  the  bed. 
She  sat  wrapped  in  her  shawl,  perfectly  still. 
The  table  stood  in  the  same  place,  cluse  by 
the  bedside,  and  on  it,  in  its  real  projiortioua 
and  appearance,  was  the  shape  so  often  re- 
peated. 

He  thought  he  saw  the  curtain  move.  He 
looked  again,  and  he  was  sure  it  moved.  He 
saw  a  hand  come  forth,  and  gmpe  about  a 
little.  Then  the  curtain  moved  more  pe?- 
cepiibly,  and  the  woman  m  the  bed  put  it 
back,  and  sat  up. 

With  her  woful  eyes,  so  haggard  and  wild,  so 
heavy  and  large,  she  looked  all  round  the 
room,  and  passed  the  corner  where  he  slept  in 
his  chair.  Her  eyes  returned  to  that  corner, 
and  she  put  her  hand  over  them  as  a  shade, 
while  she  looked  into  it.  Again  they  went 
all  around  the  room,  scarcely  heeding  Rachaft 
if  at  all,  and  returned  to  that  corner.  He 
thought,  as  she  once  more  shaded  them — not 
so  much  looking  at  him,  as  looking  for  him 
with  a  l)rutish  instinct  that  he  was  there — that 
no  single  trace  was  left  in  those  debauched 
features,  or  in  the  mind  that  went  along  with 
them,  of  the  woman  he  had  married  eighteen 
years  before.  But  that  he  had  seen  her  couiC 
to  this  by  inches,  he  never  could  have  believed 
her  to  ije  the  same. 

All  this  time,  as  if  a  spell  were  on  him,  he 
was  motionless  and  powerless,  except  to  watch 
her. 

Stupidly  dozing,  or  communing  with  her 
incapable  self  about  nothing,  she  sat  for  a  little 
whiie  with  her  hands  at  her  ears,  and  herhead 
resting  on  them.  Presently,  she  resumed  her 
staring  round  the  room.  And  now,  for  the 
first  time  her  eyes  stopped  at  thetable  with  the 
bottles  on  it. 

Straightway  she  turned  her  eyes  back  to  his 
cor  er,  with  the  defiance  of  last  night,  and, 
moving  very  cautiously  and  softly,  stretched 
out  her  greedy  hand.  She  drew  a  mug  into 
the  bed,  and  sat  for  awhile  considering  which 
of  the  two  bottles  she  should  choose.  Finally, 
she  laid  her  insensate  grasp  upon  the  bottle 
that  had  swift  and  certain  death  in  it,  and  be- 
fore his  eyes,  pulled  out  the  cork  with  her  teeth. 

Dream  or  reality,  he  had  no  voice,  nor  had 
he  power  to  stir.  If  this  be  real,  and  her 
allotted  time  be  not  yet  come,  wake,  Rachael, 
wake  ! 

She  thought  of  that,  too.  She  looked  at 
Rachael,  and  very  slowly,  very  cautiously, 
poured  out  the  contents.  The  draught  was  at 
her  lips.  A  moment  and  she  would  be  past 
all  help,  let  the  whole  world  wake  and  come 
about  her  with  its  utmost  power.  But,  in 
that  moment  Rachael  started  up  with  a  sup- 
pressed cry.  The  creature  struggled,  struck 
her,  seized'  her  by  the  hair;  but  Rachael  uad 
the  cup. 


114 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


Stephen  broke  out  of  his  chair.  "Rachael, 
am  I  wakiu'  or  dreamiu'  this  dreadfo'  night!" 

"Tis  all  well,  Stephen.  I  have  been  asleep 
myself.  'Tis  near  three.  Hush  1  I  hear  the 
beUs." 

The  wind  brought  the  sounds  of  the  church 
clock  to  the  window.  They  listened,  and  it 
struck  three.  Stephen  looked  at  her,  saw  how 
pale  she  was,  noted  the  disorder  of  her  hair, 
aud  the  red  marks  of  fingers  on  her  forehead, 
and  felt  assured  that  his  senses  of  sight  and 
hearing  had  been  awaked.  She  held  the  cup 
in  her  hand  even  now. 

"  I  thought  it  must  be  near  three,"  she 
said,  calmly  pouring  from  the  cup  into  the 
basin,  aud  steeping  the  linen  as  before.  "I 
am  thankful  I  stayed!  'Tis  done  now,  when  I 
have  put  this  on.  Iherel  And  now  she's 
quiet  again.  The  few  drops  in  the  basin  I'll 
pour  away,  for  'tis  bad  stuff  to  leave  about, 
though  ever  so  little  of  it."  As  she  spoke,  she 
drained  the  basin  into  the  ashes  of  the  hre,  and 
broke  the  bottle  on  the  hearth. 

She  had  nothing  to  do,  then,  but  to  cover 
herself  with  her  shawl  before  going  out  into  the 
wmd  aud  rain. 

"Thou'lt  let  me  walk  wi'  thee  at  this  hour, 
Rachael?" 

"No,  Stephen.  'Tis  but  a  minute  and  I'm 
home." 

"Thou'rt  not  fearfo';"  he  said  it  in  a  low 
voice,  as  they  went  out  at  the  door;  "to  leave 
me  alone  wi'  her  !" 

As  she  looked  at  him,  saying  "Stephen  ?'" 
he  went  down  on  his  knee  before  her,  on  the 
poor  mean  stairs,  and  put  an  end  of  her  shawl 
to  his  lips. 

"Thou  art  an  Angel.  Bless  thee,  bless 
thee!" 

"1  am,  as  I  have  told  thee,  Stephen,  thy  poor 
friend.  Angels  are  not  like  me.  lietvveen 
them,  and  a  working  woman  fu'  of  faults,  there 
is  a  deep  gulf  set.  My  little  sister  is  among 
them,  but  she  is  changed." 

She  raised  her  eyes  for  a  moment  as  she  said 
the  words;  and  then  they  fell  again,  in  all  their 
gentleness  and  mildness,  on  his  face. 

"Thou  changest  me  from  bad  to  good.  Thou 
mak'st  me  humbly  wishfo'  to  be  more  like  thee, 
and  fearib'  to  lose  thee  when  this  life  is  ower, 
an'  a'  the  muddle  cleared  awa'.  Thou'rt  an 
Angel;  it  may  be,  thou  hast  saved  my  soul 
alive!" 

She  looked  at  him,  on  his  knee  at  her  feet, 
•with  her  shawl  still  in  his  hand,  and  the  reproof 
on  her  lips  died  away  when  she  saw  the  work- 
ing of  his  face. 

"I  coom  home  desp'rate.  I  coom  home 
wi'out  a  hope,  and  madwi'  thinking  that  when 
I  said  a  word  o'  complaint,  I  was  reckoned  a 
cureasonable  Hand.  1  told  thee  I  had  had  a 
fright.  It  were  the  Poison-bottle  on  table.  I 
never  hurt  a  livin'  creetur;  but,  happenin'  so 
suddenly  upon't,  I  thowt,  'How  can  /  say 
what  I  might  ha'  done  to  mysen,  or  her,  or 
both!'" 

She  put  her  two  hands  on   his  mouth,  with 


a  face  of  terror,  to  stop  him  from  saying 
more.  He  caught  them  in  his  unoccupied 
hand,  and  holding  them,  and  still  clasping  the 
border  of  her  shawl,  said,  hurriedly: 

"But  I  see  thee,  Rachael,  setten  by  the  bed. 
I  ha'  seen  thee  a'  this  night.  In  my  troublous 
sleep  I  ha'  kuown  thee  still  to  be  there.  Ever- 
more I  will  see  thee  there.  I  nevermore  will 
see  her  or  think  o'  her,  but  thou  shalt  be  be- 
side her.  I  nevermore  will  see  or  think  o'  any- 
thing that  angers  me,  but  thou,  so  much  better 
than  me,  shalt  be  by  th'  side  on't.  And  so  I 
will  try  t'  look  t'  th'  time,  and  so  I  will  try  t' 
trust  t'  th'  time,  when  thou  aud  me  at  last 
shall  walk  together  far  awa',  beyond  the  deep 
gulfj  in  th'  country  where  thy  little  sister  is." 

He  kissed  the  border  of  her  shawl  again, 
and  let  her  go.  She  bade  him  good  night  in 
a  broken  voice,  and  went  out  into  the  street. 

The  wind  blew  from  the  quarter  where  the 
day  would  soon  appear,  and  still  blew  strongly. 
It  had  cleared  the  sky  before  it,  and  the  ram 
had  spent  itself  or  travelled  elsewhere,  and  the 
stars  were  bright.  He  stood  bare-headed  in 
the  road,  watching  her  quick  disappearance. 
As  the  shining  stars  were  to  the  heavy  candle 
ill  the  window,  so  was  Rachael,  in  the  rugged 
fancy  of  this  man,  to  the  common  experiences 
of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Time  went  on  in  Coketown  like  its  own 
machinery :  so  much  material  wrought  up, 
so  much  fuel  consumed,  so  many  powers  worn 
out,  so  much  money  made.  But,  less  inexor- 
able than  iron,  steel,  and  brass,  it  brought  its 
varying  seasons  even  into  that  wilderness  of 
smoke  and  brick,  and  made  the  only  stand  that 
ever  was  made  in  the  place  against  its  direful 
uniformity. 

"Louisa  is  becoming,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
"almost  a  young  woman." 

Time,  with  his  innumerable  horse-power, 
worked  away,  not  minding  what  anybody 
said,  and  presently  turned  out  young  Thomas 
a  foot  taller  than  when  his  father  had  last  taken 
particular  notice  of  him. 

"Thomas  is  becoming,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
"almost  a  young  man." 

Time  passed  Thomas  on  in  the  mill,  while 
his  father  was  thinking  about  it,  and  there 
he  stood  in  a  long  tail-coat  and  a  stiff  shirt- 
collar. 

"Really,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "the  period 
has  arrived  when  Thomas  ought  to  go  lo 
Bounderby." 

Time,  sticking  to  him,  passed  him  on  into 
Bouuderby's  Bank,  made  him  an  inmate  of 
Bounderby's  house,  necessitated  the  purchase 
of  his  first  razor,  and  exercised  him  diligently 
in  his  calculations  relative  to  number  one. 

The  same  great  manufacturer,  always  with 
an  immense  variety  of  work  on  hand,  in  every 
stage  of  development,  passed  Sissy  onward  in 
his  mill,  and  worked  her  up  into  a  very  pretty 
article  indeed. 


HARD  TIMES. 


115 


"I  fear,  Jupe,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "that 
your  continuance  at  the  school  any  longer, 
would  be  useless." 

"I  am  afraid  it  would,  sir,"  Sissy  answered 
with  a  curtsey. 

"I  cannot  disguise  from  you,  Jupe,"  said 
Mr.  Gradgrind,  knitting  his  brow,  "that 
the  result  of  your  probation  there  has 
disappointed  me ;  has  greatly  disappointed 
me.  You  have  not  acquired,  under  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  M'Choakumchild,  anything  like 
that  amount  of  exact  knowledge  which 
I  looked  for.  You  are  extremely  deficient 
in  your  facts.  Y'^our  acquaintance  with  figures 
is  very  limited.  Y'ou  are  altogether  backward, 
and  below  the  mark." 

"I  am  sorry,  sir,"  she  returned;  "but  I  know 
it  is  quite  true.    Yet  I  have  tried  hard,  sir." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "yes,  I  believe 
you  have  tried  hard;  I  have  observed  you,  and 
I  can  find  no  fault  in  that  respect." 

'•Thank  you,  sir.  I  have  thought  some- 
time" ;"  Sissy  very  timid  here ;  "that  perhaps 
I  tried  to  learn  too  much,  and  that  if  I  had 
asked  to  be  allowed  to  try  a  little  less,  I  might 
have—" 

"No,  Jupe,  no,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  shak- 
ing his  head  in  his  profoundest  and  most  emi- 
nently practical  way.  "No.  The  course  you 
pursued,  you  pursued  according  to  the  system 
— the  system — and  there  is  no  more  to 
be  said  about  it.  I  can  only  suppose  that  the 
circumstances  of  your  early  life  were  too  un- 
favorable to  the  development  of  your  reasoning 
powers,  and  that  we  began  too  late.  Still,  as 
1  have  said  already,  I  am  disappointed." 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  made  a  better  ac- 
knowledgment, sir,  of  your  kindness  to  a  poor 
f  irlorn  girl  who  had  no  claim  upon  you,  and  of 
your  protection  of  her." 

"Uori'tsh?d  tears,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. — 
"Don't  shed  tears.  I  don't  complain  of  you. 
You  are  an  affectionate,  earnest,  good  young 
woman,  an ' — and  we  must  make  that  do." 

"  i  hank  you,  sir,  very  much,"  said  Sissy, 
wiih  a  grateful  curtsey. 

"  You  are  useful  to  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  and  (in 
a  generally  pervading  way)  you  are  serviceable 
in  the  family  also;  so  I  understand  from  Miss 
Louisa,  and,  indeed,  so  I  have  observed  myself. 
1  therefore  hope,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "that 
you  can  make  yourself  happy  in  those  rela- 
tions." 

"I  should  have  nothing  to  wish,  sir,  if — " 

"I  understand  you,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind; 
"you  still  refer  to  your  father.  I  have  beard 
from  Miss  Louisa  that  you  still  preserve  that 
bottle.  Well!  If  your  training  in  the  science 
of  arriving  at  exact  results  had  been  more 
successful,  you  would  have  been  wiser  oh  these 
points.     I  will  say  no  more." 

He  really  liked  Sissy  too  well  to  have  a 
contempt  for  her ;  otherwise  he  held  her 
calculating  powers  in  such  very  slight  estima- 
tion, that  he  must  have  fallen  upon  that 
conclusion.  Somehow  or  other,  he  had  be- 
come possessed  by  au  idea  liia-t  there  was  some- 


thing in  this  girl  which  could  hardly  be  set 
forth  in  a  tabular  form.  Her  capacity  of  defi- 
nition might  be  easily  stated  at  a  very  low 
figure,  her  mathematical  knowledge  at  nothing ; 
yet  he  was  not  sure  that  if  he  had  been  re- 
quired, for  example,  to  tick  heroff  into  columns 
in  a  parliamentary  return,  he  would  have  quite 
known  how  to  divide  her. 

In  some  stages  of  his  manufacture  of  the 
human  fabric,  the  processes  of  'I'ime  are  very 
rapid.  Young  Thomas  and  Sissy  being  both 
at  such  a  stage  of  their  working  up,  these 
changes  were  effected  in  a  year  or  two  ;  while 
Mr.  Gradgrisd  himself  seemed  stationary  in 
his  course,  and  underwent  no  alteration. 

Except  one,  which  was  apart  from  his  ne- 
cessary progress  through  the  mill.  Time 
hustled  him  into  a  little  noisy  and  rather  dirty 
machinery,  in  a  bye  corner,  and  made  him 
Member  of  Parliament  for  Coketown:  one  of 
the  respected  members  for  ounce  weights  and 
niPasures,  one  of  the  representatives  of  the 
multiplication  table,  one  of  the  deaf  honorable 
gentlemen,  dumb  honorable  gentlemen,  blind 
honorable  gentlemen,  lame  honorable  gentle- 
men, dead  honorable  gentlemen,  to  every  other 
consideration.  Else  wherefore  live  we  in  a 
Christian  land,  eighteen  hundred  and  odd  years 
after  our  Master  ? 

All  this  while,  Louisa  had  been  passing  on, 
so  quiet  and  reserved,  and  so  much  triveu  to 
watching  the  bright  ashes  at  twilight  as  they 
fell  into  the  grate  and  became  extinct,  that 
from  the  period  when  her  father  had  said  she 
was  almost  a  young  woman — which  seemed 
but  yesterday — she  had  scarcely  attracted  his 
notice  again,  when  he  found  her  quite  a  young 
woman. 

"Quite  a  young  woman,"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, musing.     "Dear  me  1" 

Soon  after  this  discovery,  he  became  more 
thoughtful  than  usual  for  several  days,  and 
seemed  much  engros.-ed  by  one  subject.  On 
a  certain  night,  when  he  was  going  out,  and 
Louisa  came  to  bid  him  good  bye  betore  his 
(iepari\ire — as  he  was  not  to  be  home  until 
late,  and  she  would  not  see  him  again  untcU 
the  moruing^he  held  her  in  his  arms,  looking 
at  her  in  his  kindest  manner,  and  said  : 

"My  dear  Louisa,  you  are  a  woman." 

She  answered  with  the  old,  quick,  searching 
look  of  the  night  whcu  she  was  found  at  the 
Circus ;  then  cast  down  her  eyes.  "Yes, 
lather." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "I  must 
speak  with  you  alone  and  seriously.  Come  to 
ms  in  my  room  after  breakfast  to-morrow, 
will  you  ?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Your  hands  are  rather  cold,  Louisa.  Are 
you  not  well  ?" 

"Quite  well,  father." 

"And  cheerful  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  again,  and  smiled  in  her 
peculiar  manner.  "I  am  as  cheerful,  father, 
as  1  usually  am,  or  usually  have  been." 

"  That's  well,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind.     So,  he 


116 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


kissed  her  and  went  away;  and  Louisa  re- 
turned to  the  serene  apartment  of  the  hair-cut- 
ting character,  and  leaning  her  elbow  on  her 
hand,  looked  again  at  the  short-lived  sparks 
that  so  soon  subsided  into  ashes. 

"Are  you  there,  Loo  V  said  her  brother, 
hjoking  in  at  the  door.  He  was  quite  a  young 
gentlemau  of  pleasure  now,  and  nut  quite  a 
prepossessing  one. 

'*  Dear  Tom,"  she  answered,  rising  and  em- 
bracing him,  "  how  long  it  is  since  you  have 
been  to  see  me  1" 

'■Why,  I  have  been  otherwise  engaged,  Loo, 
in  the  evenings;  and  in  the  daytime  old  Boun- 
derby  has  been  keeping  me  at  it  rather.  But 
1  touch  him  up  with  you,  when  he  comes  it  too 
strong;  and  so  we  preserve  an  understanding. 
I  say!  Has  father  said  anything  particular  to 
you,  to-day  or  yesterday,  Loo?" 

'•No,  Tom.  But  he  told  me  to-night  that  he 
wished  to  do  so  in  the  morning." 

"Ah  I  That's  what  I  mean,"  said  Tom. 
"Do  you  know  where  he  is  to-night?" — with  a 
very  deep  expression. 

"No." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.  He's  with  old  Boundor- 
by.  They  are  having  a  regular  confab  toge- 
ther, up  at  the  Bank.  Why  at  the  Bank,  do 
you  think  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  again.  To 
keep  Mrs.  Sparsit's  ears  as  far  off  as  possible, 
I  expect." 

W^ith  her  hand  upon  her  brothe'-'j  shoulder, 
Louisa  still  stood  looking  at  the  lire.  Her 
brother  glanced  at  her  face  with  greater  inter- 
est than  usual,  and  encircling  her  waist  with 
his  arm,  drew  her  coaxingly  to  him. 

"You  are  very  fond  of  me,  an't  you.  Loo?" 

"  Indeed  I  am,  Tom,  though  you  do  let 
such  long  intervals  go  by  without  coming  to 
see  me." 

"Well,  sister  of  mine,"  said  Tom,  "  when 
you  say  that,  you  are  near  my  thoughts.  We 
might  be  so  much  oftener  together — mightn't 
we?  Always  together,  almost — mightn't  we  ? 
It  would  do  me  a  great  deal  of  good  if  you  were 
to  make  up  your  mind  to  I  know  what,  Loo. 
It  would  be  a  splendid  thing  for  me.  It  would 
be  uncommonly  jolly !" 

Her  thoughtfulness  baffled  his  cunning 
scrutiny.  He  could  make  nothing  of  her  face. 
He  pressed  her  in  his  arm,  and  kissed  her 
cheek.  She  returned  the  kiss,  but  still  looKed 
at  the  fire. 

"I  say,  Loo!  I  thought  I'd  come  and  just 
hint  to  you  what  was  groing  on  :  though  I  sup- 
posed you'd  most  likely  guess,  even  if  you 
didn't  know.  I  can't  stay,  because  I'm  engaged 
to  some  fellows  to-night.  You  won't  forget 
how  fond  you  are  of  me  ?" 

"No,  dear  Tom,  I  won't  forget." 

"That's  a  capital  girl,"  said  Tom.  "Good 
bye.  Loo." 

She  gave  him  an  affectionate  good  night, 
and  went  out  with  him  to  the  door,  whence 
the  tires  of  Coketown  could  be  seen,  making 
the  distance  lurid.  She  stood  there,  looking 
steadfastly  towards  them,  and  listening  to  his 


departing  steps.  They  retreated  quickly,  as 
glad  to  get  away  from  Stone  Lodge  ;  and  she 
stood  there  yet,  when  he  was  gone  and  all  was 
quiet.  It  seemed  as  if,  first  in  her  own  fire 
within  the  house,  and  then  in  the  fiery  haze 
without,  she  tried  to  discover  what  kind  of  woot 
Old  Time,  that  greatest  and  longest-established 
Spinner  of  all,  would  weave  from  the  threads 
he  had  already  spun  into  a  woman.  But,  his 
factory  is  a  secret  place,  his  work  is  noiseless, 
and  his  Hands  are  mutes. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Although  Mr.  Gradgrind  did  not  take  after 
Blue  Beard,  his  room  was  quite  a  Blue  chamber 
in-  its  abundance  of  blue  books.  Whatever 
they  could  prove  (which  is  usually  anything 
you  like),  they  proved  there,  in  an  army  con- 
stantly strengthening  by  the  arrival  of  new  re- 
cruits. In  that  charmed  apartment,  the  most 
complicated  social  questions  were  cast  up,  got 
into  exact  totals,  and  finally  settled — if  those 
concerned  could  only  have  been  brought  to 
know  it.  As  if  an  astronomical  obser- 
vatory should  be  made  without  any  win- 
dows, and  the  astronomer  within  should 
arrange  the  starry  universe  solely  by  pen, 
ink  and  paper,  so  Mr.  Gradgrind,  in  Jiis 
Observatory  (and  there  are  many  like  it),  had 
no  need  to  cast  an  eye  upon  the  teeming  my- 
riads of  human  beiu'S  around  him,  but  could 
settle  all  their  destinies  on  a  slate,  and  wipe 
out  all  their  tears  with  one  dirty  little  bit  of 
sponge. 

To  this  Observatory,  then  :  a  stern  room 
with  a  deadly-statistical  clock  in  it,  which 
measured  every  second  with  a  beat  like  a  rap 
upon  a  coffin-lid :  Louisa  repaired  on  the 
appointed  morning.  The  window  looked  to- 
wards Coketown  ;  and  when  she  sat  down  near 
her  father's  table,  she  saw  the  high  chimneys 
and  the  long  tracks  of  smoke  looming  in  the 
heavy  distance  gloomily. 

"My  dear  Louisa,"  said  her  father,  "I  pre- 
pared you  last  night  to  give  me  your  serious 
attention  in  the  conversation  we  are  nowgo'ng 
to  have  together.  You  have  been  so  well 
trained,  and  you  do,  I  am  happy  to  say,  so 
much  justice  to  the  education  you  have  re- 
ceived, that  I  have  perfect  confidence  in  your 
good  sense.  You  are  not  impulsive,  you  are 
not  romantic,  you  are  accustomed  to  view 
everything  from  the  strong  dispassionate 
ground  of  reason  and  calculation.  From  that 
ground  alone,  I  know  you  will  view  and  con- 
sider -what  I  am  going  to  communicate." 

He  waited,  as  if  he  would  have  been  glad 
that  she  said  something.  But  she  said  never 
a  word. 

"Louisa,  my  dear,  you  are  the  subject  of  a 
proposal  of  marriage  that  has  been  made  to 
me." 

Again  he  waited,  and  again  she  answered 
not  one  word.  This  so  far  surprised  him,  as 
to  induce  him  gently  to  repeat,  "  a  proposal  of 


HARD  TIMES. 


117 


marriage,  my  dear."     To  which,  she  returned 
without  any  visible  emotion  whatever : 

"  I  hear  you,  father.  I  am  attending,  I 
assure  you." 

''  Well  1  "  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  breaking 
into  a  smile,  after  being  for  the  moment  at  a 
loss.  "  you  are  even  more  dispassionate  than 
I  expected,  Louisa.  Or,  perhaps  you  are  not 
unprepared  for  the  announcement  I  have  it  in 
charge  to  make  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  that,  father,  until  I  hear  it. 
Prepared  or  unprepared,  I  wish  to  hear  it  all 
from  you.  I  wish  to  hear  you  state  it  to  me, 
father." 

Strange  to  relate,  Mr.  Gradgrind  was  not  so 
collected  at  this  moment  as  his  daughter  was. 
He  took  a  paper-knife  in  his  hand,  turned  it 
over,  laid  it  down,  took  it  up  again,  and  even 
then  had  tolook  along  the  blade  of  it,  consider- 
ing how  to  go  on. 

''What  you  say,  my  dear  Louisa,  is  perfectly 
reasonable.  I  have  undertaken  then  to  let  you 
you  know  that that  Mr.  Bounderby  has  in- 
formed me  that  he  has  long  watched  your  pro- 
gress with  particular  interest  and  pleasure,  and 
has  long  hoped  that  the  time  misrht  ultimately 
arrive  when  he  should  offer  you  his  hand  in 
marriage.  That  time,  to  which  she  has  so  long, 
ajid  certainly  with  great  constancy,  looked  for- 
ward, is  now  come.  Mr.  Bounderby  has  made 
his  proposal  of  marriage  to  me,  and  has  en- 
treated me  to  make  it  known  to  you,  and  to 
express  his  hope  that  you  will  take  it  into  your 
favorable  consideration." 

Silence  between  them.  The  deadlysta 
trstica!  clock  vcrv  hoi  ow.  The  distant  smoke 
Very  blnck  arid  heavy. 

"Father,"  said  Louisa,  "do  you  think  I  love 
Mr.  Bounderby?" 

Mr.  Gradgrind  was  extremely  discomfited 
by  this  unexpected  question.  "Well,  my 
child,"  he  returned,  "I — really — cannot  take 
upon  myself  to  say." 

"Father,"  pursued  Louisa,  in  exactly  the 
same  voice  as  before,  "do  you  ask  me  to  love 
Mr.  Bounderby?" 

"My  dear  Louisa,  no.   No.    I  ask  nothing." 

"  Father,"  she  still  pursued,  "  does  Mr. 
Bounderby  ask  me  to  love  him?" 

"  Really,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  it 
is  dithcultto  answer  your  question — " 

'•  Difficult  to  answer  it.  Yes  or  No,  father?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear.  Because  ;"  here  was 
something  to  demonstrate,  and  it  set  him  up 
again;  "  because  the  reply  depends  so  mate- 
rially, Louisa,  on  the  sense  in  which  we  use 
the  expression.  Now,  Mr.  Bounderby  does 
not  do  you  the  injustice,  and  does  not  do 
himself  the  injustice,  of  preteiidinfr  to  any- 
thing fanciful,  fanta:^tic,  or  (I  am  u.-iiif: 
synonymous  terms)  sentimental.  Mr.  Bound- 
erby would  have  seen  you  grow  up  under 
iis  eyes,  to  very  little  purpose,  if  he  could  so 
far  fi<rget  what  is  due  to  your  good  sense,  not 
to  say  to  his,  as  to  address  you  from  any  such 
ground.     Therefore,   perhaps  the    expression 


itself— I  merely  suggest  this  to  you,  my  dear 

may  be  a  little  misplaced." 

"  What  would  you  advise  me  to  use  in  its 
stead,  father?" 

"  Why,  my  dear  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, completely  recovered  by  this  time,  "  I 
would  advise  you  (since  you  ask  me)  to 
consider  this  question,  as  you  have  been 
accustomed  to  consider  every  other  question 
simply  as  one  of  tangible  Fact.  The  ignorant' 
and  the  giddy  may  embarrass  such  subjecu 
with  irrelevant  fancies,  and  other  absur- 
dities that  have  no  existence,  properly 
viewed — really  no  existence — but  it  is  no 
compliment  to  you  to  say,  that  you  know  better. 
Now,  what  are  the  Facts  of  this  case  ?  You 
are,  we  will  say  in  round  numbers,  twenty 
years  of  age  ;  Mr.  Bounderby  is,  we  will  say  in 
round  numbers,  fifty.  There  is  some  disparity 
in  your  respective  years,  but  in  your  means  anil 
positions  there  is  none;  on  the'contrary,  there 
is  a  great  suitability.  Then  the  question  arises, 
Is  this  one  disparity  sufficient  to  operate  as  a 
bar  to  such  a  marriage?  In  considering  this 
question,  it  is  not  unimportant  to  take  into 
account  the  statistics  of  marriage,  so  far  aa 
they  have  yet  been  obtained,  in  England  and 
Wales.  I  find,  on  reference  to  the  figures,  that 
a  large  proportion  of  these  marriages  are  con- 
tracted between  parties  of  very  unequal  ages, 
and  that  the  elder  of  these  contracting  parties 
is,  in  rather  more  than  three-fourths  of  these 
instances,  the  bridegroom.  It  is  remarkable, 
as  showing  the  wide  prevalence  of  this  law, 
that  among  the  natives  of  the  British  posses- 
sions in  India,  also  in  a  considerable  part  of 
China,  and  among  the  Calmucks  of  Tartary, 
the  best  means  of  computation  yet  furnibhed 
us  by  travellers,  yield  similar  results.  The 
disparity  I  have  mentioned,  therefore,  almost 
ceases  to  be  disparity,  and  (virtually)  all  but 
disappears." 

"What  do  you  recommend,  father,"  asked 
Louisa,  her  reserved  composure  not  in  the 
least  affected  by  these  gratifying  results, 
"that  I  should  substitute  for  the  term  I  used 
just  now?     For  the  misplaced  expression?" 

"Louisa,"  returned  her  father,  "it  appears 
to  me  that  nothing  can  be  plainer.  Confining 
yourself  rigidly  to  Fact,  the  question  of  Fact 
you  state  to  yourself  is  :  Does  Mr.  Bounderby 
ask  me  to  marry  him  ?  Yes,  he  does.  The 
sole  remaining  question  then  is:  Shall  I  marry 
him  ?  I  think  nothing  can  be  plainer  than 
thit." 

"Shall  I  marry  him  ?"  repeated  Louisa,  with 
great  deliberation. 

"  Precisely.  And  it  is  satisfactory  to  me.  as 
your  father,  ray  dear  Louisa,  to  know  that  you 
do  not  come  to  the  consideration  of  that 
question  with  the  previous  habits  of  mitd.and 
habits  of  life,  that  belong  to  many  young 
women." 

"  No,  father;"  she  returned,  "  I  do  not." 

"  I  now  leave  vou  to  judtje  for  yourself,'  said 
Mr.  Gradgrind.  "I  have  stated  the  case,  aa 
such  cases  are  usually  stated  among  practical 


118 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


minds ;  I  have  stated  it,  as  the  case  of  your 
mother  and  myself  was  stated  in  its  time. 
The  rest,  my  dear  Louisa,  is  for  you  to 
decide." 

From  the  beginning,  she  had  sat  looking  at 
nim  fixedly.  As  he  now  leaned  back  in  his 
chair,  and  bent  his  deep-set  eyes  upon  her  in 
his  turn,  perhaps  he  might  have  seen  one 
wavering  moment  in  her,  when  she  was  im- 
pelled to  throw  herself  upon  his  breast,  and 
give  him  the  pent-up  confidences  of  her  heart. 
But,  to  see  it,  he  must  have  overleaped  at  a 
bound  the  artificial  barriers  he  had  for  many 
years  been  erecting,  between  himself  and  all 
those  subtle  essences  of  humanity  which  will 
elude  the  utmost  cunning  of  algebra  until  the 
last  trumpet  ever  to  be  sounded  shall  blow 
even  algebra  to  wreck.  The  barriers  wer^  too 
many  and  too  high  for  such  a  leap.  He  did 
not  see  it.  With  his  unbending,  utilitarian, 
matter-of-fact  face,  he  hardened  her  again ; 
and  the  moment  shot  away  into  the  plumb- 
less  depth  of  the  past,  to  mingle  with  all  the 
lost  opportunities  that  are  drowned  there. 

Removing  her  eyes  from  hira,  she  sat  so 
long  looking  silently  towards  the  town,  that  he 
said,  at  length :  "  Are  you  consulting  the 
chimneys  of  the  Coketown  works,  Louisa?"' 

"  There  seems  to  be  nothing  there,  but 
languid  and  monotonous  smoke.  Yet  when 
the  night  comes,  Fire  bursts  out,  fatherl"  she 
answered,  turning  quickly. 

"Of  course  I  know  that,  Louisa.  I  do  not 
see  the  application  of  the  remark."  To  do 
him  justice  he  did  not,  at  all. 

She  passed  it  away  with  a  slight  motion  of 
her  hand,  and  concentrating  her  attention  upon 
him  again,  said,  "Father,  I  have  often  thought 
that  life  is  very  short" This  was  so  dis- 
tinctly one  of  his  subjects  that  he  interposed: 

"It  is  short,  no  doubt,  my  dear.  Still,  the 
average  duration  of  human  life  is  proved  to 
have  increased  of  late  years.  The  calculations 
of  various  life  assurance  and  annuity  otKces, 
among  other  figures  which  cannot  go  wrong, 
have  established  the  fact." 

"I  speak  of  my  own  life,  father." 

"0  indeed  ?  Still,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "I 
need  not  point  out  to  you,  Louisa,  that  it  is 
governed  by  the  laws  which  govern  lives  in  the 
aggregate." 

"While  it  lasts,  I  would  wish  to  do  the  little 
I  can,  and  the  little  I  am  fit  for.  What  does  it 
matter !" 

Mr.  Gradgrind  seemed  rather  at  a  loss  to 
understand  the  last  four  words ;  replying, 
''How,  matter?     What,  matter,  my  dear?" 

"Mr.  Bounderby,"  she  went  on  in  a  steady, 
straight  way,  without  regarding  this,  "asks  me 
to  marry  him.  The  question  I  have  to  ask 
myself  is,  shall  I  marry  him  ?  That  is  so, 
father,  is  it  not?  You  have  told  me  so,  father. 
Have  you  not?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear." 

"Let  it  be  so.  Since  Mi.  Bounderby  likes 
to  take  me  thus,  I  am  satisfied  to  accept  his 
proposal.     Tell   him,  father,   as  soon  as  you 


please,  that  this  was  my  answer.  Repeat  it> 
word  for  word,  if  you  can,  because  I  should 
wish  him  to  know  what  I  said." 

"It  is  quite  right,  my  dear,"  retorted  her 
father  approvingly,  "to  be  exact.  1  will  o\y 
serve  your  very  proper  request.  Have  you  any' 
wish,  in  reference  to  the  period  of  your  mar- 
riage, my  child  ?" 

"None,  father.     What  does  it  matter  1" 

Mr.  Gradgrind  had  drawn  his  chair  a  little 
nearer  to  her,  and  taken  her  hand.  But,  her 
repetition  of  these  words  seemed  to  strike  with 
some  little  discord  on  his  ear.  He  paused 
to  look  at  her,  and,  still  holding  her  baud, 
said  : 

"Louisa,  I  have  not  considered  it  essential 
to  ask  you  one  question,  because  the  possibility 
implied  in  it  appeared  to  me  to  be  too  remote. 
But,  perhaps  I  ought  to  do  so.  You  have 
never  entertained  in  secret  any  other  proposal?' 

"Father,"  she  returned,  almost  scornfully, 
"what  other  proposal  can  have  been  made  to 
me?  Whom  have  I  seen?  Where  have  I 
been?     What  are  my  heart's  experiences?" 

"My  dear  Louisa,"  returned  Mr.  Gradgrind, 
re-assured  and  satisfied,  "you  correct  me  justly. 
I  merely  wished  to  discharge  my  duty." 

"What  do  /  know,  father,"  said  Louisa  in 
her  quiet  manner,  "of  tastes  and  fancie^^;  of 
aspirations  and  afl'ections;  of  all  that  part  of 
my  nature  in  which  such  light  things  might 
have  been  nourished?  What  escape  have  I 
had  from  problems  that  could  be  demonstrated, 
and  realities  that  could  be  grasped?"  As  she 
said  it,  she  unconsciously  closed  her  hand,  as 
if  upon  a  solid  object,  and  slowly  opened  it  as 
though  she  were  releasing  dust  or  ash. 

"My  dear,"  assented  her  eminently  practical 
parent,  "quite  true,  quite  true." 

"Why,  father,"  she  pursued,  "what  a 
strange  question  to  ask  me!  The  baby- 
preference  that  even  I  have  ht-ard  of  as  com- 
mon among  children,  has  never  had  its  innocent 
resting-place  in  my  breast.  You  have  been 
so  caretul  of  me,  that  I  never  had  a  child's 
heart.  You  have  trained  me  so  well  that  [ 
never  dreamed  a  child's  dream.  You  have 
dealt  so  wisely  with  me,  father,  from  my  cradle 
to  this  hour,  that  I  never  had  a  child's  belief 
or  a  child's  fear." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  was  quite  moved  by  his  suc- 
cess, and  by  this  testimony  to  it.  "My  dear 
Louisa,"  said  he,  "you  abundantly  repay  my 
care.     Kiss  me,  my  dear  girl." 

So,  his  daughter  kissed  him.  Detaining 
her  in  his  embrace,  he  said,  "I  may  assure 
you  now,  my  favorite  child,  that  I  am  made 
happy  by  the  sound  decision  at  which  you 
have  arrived.  Mr.  Bounderby  is  a  very  re- 
markable man;  and  what  little  disparity  can  be 
said  to  exist  between  you — if  any — is  more 
than  counterbalanced  by  the  tone  your  mind 
has  acquired.  It  has  always  been  my  ol  ject 
so  to  educate  you,  as  that  you  might,  while  still 
in  your  early  youth,  be  (if  I  may  so  express 
myself)  almost  any  age.  Kiss  me  once  mure, 
Louisa.     N  ow,  let  us  go  and  find  your  mother." 


HARD  TIMES. 


119 


Accordingly,  they  went  down  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  the  esteemed  lady  with  no 
nonsense  about  her  was  recumbent  as  usual, 
while  Sissy  worked  beside  her.  She  gave  some 
feeble  signs  of  returning  animation  when  they 
entered,  and  presently  the  taint  transparency 
was  presented  in  a  sitting  attitude. 

"Mrs.  Gradgnnd,"  said  her  husband,  who 
had  waited  tor  the  achievement  of  this  feat 
with  some  impatience,  "allow  me  to  present 
to  you  Mrs.  Bounderby." 

'"Oh!''  said  Mrs.  Gradirrind,  "so  you  have 
settled  it!  Well,  I  am  sure  I  hope  your  health 
may  be  good,  Louisa;  for  if  your  head  begins 
to  split  as  soon  as  you  are  married,  which  was 
the  case  with  mine,  I  cannot  consider  that  you 
are  to  be  envied,  though  I  have  no  doubt  you 
think  you  are,  as  all  girls  do.  However,  I  give 
you  joy,  my  dear — and  hope  you  may  now  turn 
all  your  ological  studies  to  good  account,  I  am 
sure  I  do !  I  must  give  you  a  kiss  of  congratu- 
lation, Louita;  but  don't  touch  my  right 
shoulder,  for  there's  something  running  down 
it  all  day  long.  And  now  you  see,"  whimpered 
Mrs.  Gradgrind,  adjusting  her  shawls  after  the 
affectionate  ceremony,  "I  shall  be  worrying 
myself,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  to  know 
what  I  am  to  call  him!" 

"Mrs.  Gradgrind,"  said  her  husband,  solemn- 
ly, "what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Whatever  I  am  to  call  him,  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, when  he  is  married  to  Louisa  !  I 
must  call  him  something.  It's  impossible," 
said  Mr;.  Gradgrind,  with  a  mingled  sense  of 
politeness  and  injury,  "to  be  constantly  ad 
dressing  him,  and  never  giving:  him  a  name. 
I  cannot  call  him  Josiah,  for  the  name  is  in- 
supportable to  me.  You  yourself  wouldn't 
hear  of  Joe,  you  very  well  know.  Am  I  to 
call  my  own  son-in-law.  Mister?  Not,  I  be- 
lieve, unless  the  lime  has  arrived  when,  as  an 
invalid,  I  am  to  be  trampled  upon  by  my  rela- 
tions.    Then,  what  am  I  to  call  him  ?" 

Nobody  present  having  any  suggestion  to 
offer  in  the  remarkable  emer^'ency,  Mrs.  Grad- 
grind departed  this  life  for  the  time  being,  after 
delivering  the  following  codicil  to  her  remarks 
already  executed: 

"As  to  the  wedding,  all  I  ask,  Louisa,  is, — 
and  I  ask  it  with  a  fluttering  in  my  chest, 
which  actually  extends  to  the  soles  of  my  feet. 
— that  it  may  take  place  soon.  Otherwise,  I 
know  it  is  one  of  those  subjects  I  shall  never 
hear  the  last  of." 

When  Mr.  Gradgrind  had  presented  Mrs. 
Bounderby,  Sissy  had  suddenly  turned  her 
head,  and  looked,  in  wonder,  in  pity,  in  sorrow 
in  doubt,  in  a  multitude  of  emotions,  towards 
Louisa.  Louisa  had  known  it,  and  seen  it,  with- 
out looking  at  her.  From  that  moment  she 
was  impassive,  proud,  and  cold — held  Sissy  at 
a  distance — changed  to  her  altoirether. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Mr.  Bounderby's  first  disquietude,  on  hear- 
ing of  his  happiness,  was  occasioned  by  the 


necessity  of  imparting  it  to  Mrs.  Sparsit. 
He  could  not  makp  up  his  mind  how  to  do 
that,  or  what  the  consequences  of  the  step 
might  be.  Whether  she  would  instantly  depar*, 
bag  and  baggage,  to  Lady  Scadgers,  or  would 
positively  retuse  to  budge  from  the  premises; 
whether  she  would  be  plaintive  or  abusive, 
tearful  or  tearing  ;  whether  she  would  break 
her  heart,  or  break  the  looking  glass  ;  Mr. 
Bounderby  could  not  at  all  foresC'^.  However, 
as  it  must  be  done,  he  had  no  choice  but  to 
do  it;  so,  after  attemjiting  several  letters,  and 
failing  in  them  all,  he  resolved  to  do  it  by  word 
ofmouth. 

On  his  way  home,  on  the  evening  he  set 
aside  for  this  momentous  purpose,  he  took  the 
precaution  of  stepping  into  a  chemist's  shop  and 
buying  a  bottle  of  the  very  strongest  smelling- 
salts.  "By  George  !"  said  Mr.  Bounderhy,  "if 
she  takes  it  in  the  fainting  way,  I'll  have  the 
skin  off  her  nose,  at  all  events!"  But,  in  sjiite 
of  being  thus  forearmed,  he  entered  his  own 
house  with  anything  but  a  courageous 
air  ;  and  appeared,  before  the  object  of  his 
misgivings,  like  a  dog  who  was  conscious  of 
coming  direct  from  the  pantry. 
"Good  evening,  Mr.  Bounderby  !"' 
"Good  evening,  ma'am,  good  evening." 
He  drew  up  his  chair,  and  Mrs.  Sparsit  drew 
back  hers,  as  who  should  say,  "Your  fireside, 
sir.  I  freely  admit  it.  It  is  lor  you  to  occupy 
it  all,  ifyou  think  proper." 

"Don't  go  to  the  North  Pole,  ma'am  !"  said 
Mr.  Bounderby. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  and  re- 
turned, though  short  of  her  former  position. 

Mr.  Bounderby  sat  looking  at  her,  as,  with 
the  points  of  a  stiff  sharp  pair  of  scissors,  she 
picked  out  holes  for  some  inscrutable  orna- 
mental purpose,  in  a  piece  of  cambric.  An 
operation  which,  taken  in  connexion  with  the 
bushy  eyebrows  and  the  Roman  nose,  suggested 
with  some  liveliness  the  idea  of  a  hawk  en- 
gaged upon  the  eyes  of  a  tough  little  bird. 
She  was  so  steadfastly  occupied,  that  many 
minutes  elapsed  before  she  looked  up  from 
her  work;  when  she  did  so,  Mr.  Bounderby  be- 
spoke her  attention  with  a  hitch  of  his  head. 

"Mrs.  Sparsit,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
puttinyr  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  assuring 
himself  with  his  right  hand  that  the  cork  of 
the  little  bottle  was  ready  for  use,  "I  have  no 
occasion  to  say  to  you,  that  you  are  not  only  a 
lady  born  and  bred,  but  a  devilish  sensible 
woman." 

"Sir,"  returned  the  lady,  "this  is  indeed  not 
the  first  time  that  you  have  honored  me  with 
similar  expressions  of  your  good  opinion." 

"Mrs.  Sparsit,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
"I  am  going  to  astonish  you." 

"Yes,  sir  ?"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  interro- 
gatively, and  in  the  most  tranquil  manner  pos- 
sible. She  generally  wore  mittens,  and  she 
now  laid  down  her  work  and  smoothed  those 
mittens. 

"I  am  going,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
"to  marry  Tom  Gradgriud's  daughter." 


120 


DICKENS'  NEW   STORIES. 


"Yes,  sir?"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsif.  "I  hope 
y  m  may  be  happy,  Mr.  Boundorby.  Oh,  in- 
deed I  hope  you  may  be  hupf)y,  sir!''  And 
she  said  it  with  such  great  coudesconsion,  as 
well  as  with  such  great  compassion  for  him, 
that  Bomiderby,  far  more  disconcerted  than  if 
she  had  thrown  her  work-box  at  the  mirror,  or 
swooned  on  the  hearth-rug, — corked  up  the 
smelling-salts  tight  in  his  pocket,  and  thought, 
"Now  con-found  this  woman,  who  could  have 
ever  guessed  that  she  would  take  it  in  this 
way !" 

"I  wish  with  all  my  heart,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
S[)arsit,  in  a  highly  superior  manner;  somehow 
she  seemed,  in  a  moment,  to  have  established 
a  right  to  pity  him  ever  afterwards;  "that  you 
may  be  in  all  respects  very  happy." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  returned  Bounderby,  with 
some  resentment  in  his  tone :  which  was 
clearly  lowered,  though  in  spite  of  himself, 
"I  am  obliged  to  you.     I  hope  I  shall  be." 

"/>o  you,  sir?"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  great 
affability.  "But  naturally  you  do;  of  course 
yoa  do." 

A  very  awkward  pause  on  Mr.  Bounderby's 
part  succeeded.  Mrs.  Sparsit  sedately  resumed 
her  work,  aud  occasionally  gave  a  small  cough, 
which  sounded  like  the  cough  of  conscious 
strength  and  forbearance 

"Well,  ma'am,"  resumed  Bounderby,  "under 
these  circumstances,  I  imagine  it  would  not  be 
agreeable  to  a  character  like  yours  to  remain 
here,  though  you  would  be  very  welcome  here?" 

"Oh  dear  no,  sir,  I  could  on  no  account 
think  of  thatl"  Mrs.  Sparsit  shook  her 
head,  still  in  her  highly  superior  manner,  and 
a  little  changed  the  small  cough — coughing 
now,  as  if  the  spirit  of  prophecy  rose  within 
her.  but  had  better  be  coughed  down. 

"  However,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby,  "there 
are  apartments  at  the  Bank,  where  a  born  and 
bred  lady,  as  keeper  of  the  place,  would  be 
rather  a  catch  thau  otherwise;  aud  if  the  same 
terms — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  You  were  so  good 
as  to  promise  that  you  would  always  substitute 
the  phrase,  annual  compliment." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  aanual  compliment.  If  the 
same  annual  compliment  would  be  acceptable 
there,  why,  I  see  nothing  to  part  us  unless  you 
do." 

"Sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "The  proposal 
is  like  yourself,  and  if  the  position  1  should 
assume  at  the  Bank  is  one  that  I  could  occupy 

without  descending  lower  in  the   social  scale 

)) 

"Why,  of  course  it  is,"  said  Bounderby.  "If 
it  was  not,  ma'am,  you  don't  suppose  that  I 
should  offer  it  to  a  lady  who  has  moved  in  the 
society  you  have  moved  in.  Not  that  /  care 
for  such  society,  you  knovrl  But  you  do.' 
"Mr.  Bounderby,  you  are  very  considerate." 
"You'll  have  your  own  private  apartments, 
and  you'll  have  your  coals  and  your  candles  and 
ail  ihe  rest  of  it,  and  you'll  have  your  maid  to 
attend  up(myou,atid  you'll  have  your  light  por- 
ter to  prutect  you,  and  you'll  be    what  I    take 


the  liberty  of  couaiaering  precious  comforta- 
ble," said  Bounderby. 

"Sir,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "say  no  more. 
In  yielding  up  my  trust  here,  I  shall  not  be 
freed  from  the  necessity  of  eating  the  bread  of 
dependence:"  she  might  have  said  the  sweet- 
bread, for  that  delicate  article  in  a  savory 
brown  sauce  was  her  favorite  supper  :  "  and  I 
would  rather  receive  it  from  your  hand,  thau 
from  any  other.  Therefore,  sir,  I  accept  your 
offer  gratei'ully,  and  with  many  sincere  ac- 
knowledgments for  past  tiavors.  And  I  hope, 
.sir,*'  said  Mrs.  Sparsit.  concluding  in  an  im- 
[)ressively  compassionate  manner,  "  I  fondly 
hope  that  Miss  Gradgrind  may  be  all  you 
desire,  and  deserve!" 

Nothing  moved  Mrs.  Sparsit  from  that  posi- 
tion any  more.  It  was  in  vain  for  Bounderby 
to  bluster,  or  to  assert  himself  in  any  of  his 
explosive  ways  ;  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  resolved  to 
have  compassion  on  him,  as  a  Victim.  She 
was  polite,  obliging,  cheerful,  hopeful;  but,  the 
more  polite,  the  more  obliging,  the  more  cheer- 
ful, the  more  hopeful,  the  more  exemplary 
altogether,  she  ;  the  forlorner  Sacrifice  and 
Victim,  he.  Ibhe  had  that  tenderness  for  his 
melancholy  fate,  that  his  great  red  countenance 
used  to  break  out  iuto  cold  perspirations  when 
she  looked  at  him. 

Meanwhile  the  marriage  was  appointed 
to  be  solemnized  in  eight  weeks'  time,  and 
Mr.  Bounderby  went  every  evening  to  Stone 
Lodge  as  an  accepted  wooer.  Love  was  made 
on  these  occasions  in  the  form  of  bracelets  ; 
and,  ou  all  occasions  during  the  period  of  be 
trolhal,  took  a  manufacturing  aspect.  Dresses 
were  made,  jewellery  was  made,  cakes  and 
gloves  were  made,  settlements  were  made,  and 
an  extensive  assortment  of  Facts  did  appro- 
priate honor  to  the  contract.  The  business 
was  all  Fact,  from  first  to  last.  The  Hours 
did  not  go  through  any  of  those  rosy  perform- 
ances, which  foolish  poets  have  ascribed  to 
them  at  such  times;  neither  did  the  clocks  go 
any  faster,  or  any  slower,  than  at  other  sea- 
sons. The  deadly-statistical  recorder  in  the 
Gradgrind  observatory  knocked  every  second 
on  the  head  as  it  was  born,  aud  buried  it  with 
his  accustomed  regularity. 

So  the  day  came,  as  all  other  days  come  to 
people  who  will  only  stick  to  reason  ;  and  when 
it  came,  there  were  married  in  the  church  of 
the  florid  wooden  legs — that  popular  order  of 
architecture — Josiah  Bounderby,  Esquire,  of 
Coketown,  to  Louisa,  eldestdaughter  of  Thomas 
Gradgrind,  Esquire,  of  Stone  Lodge,  M.  P.  for 
that  borough.  And  when  they  were  united  in 
holy  matrimony,  they  went  home  to  breakfast 
at  Stone  Lodge  ^foresaid. 

There  was  an  improving  party  assembled 
ou  the  auspicious  occasion,  who  knew  what 
everything  they  had  to  eat  and  drink  was 
made  of,  and  how  it  was  imported  or  ex- 
ported, and  in  what  quantities,  and  in  what 
bottoiis,  whether  native  or  foieign,  and  all 
about  it.  The  bridesmaids,  down  to  little 
Jane    Gradgrind,    were,    in    an    intellectual 


HARD  TIMES. 


121 


point-  of  view,  fit  helpmates  for  the  calculating 
boy;  and  there  was  no  nonsense  about  any  of 
the  company. 

After  breakfast,  the  bridegroom  addressed 
them  in  the  following  terms: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  Josiah  Boun- 
derby  of  Coketown.  Since  you  have  done  my 
wife  and  myself  the  honor  of  drinking  our 
healths  and  happiness,  I  suppose  I  must  ac- 
knowledge the  same;  though,  as  you  all  know 
rae,  and  know  what  I  am,  and  what  ray  ex- 
traction was,  you  won't  expect  a  speech  from 
a  man  who,  when  he  sees  a  Post,  says  'that's 
a  Post,'  and  when  he  sees  a  Pump,  says  'that's 
a  Pump,'  and  is  not  to  be  got  to  call  a  Post  a 
Pump,  or  a  Pump  a  Post,  or  either  of  them  a 
Toothpick.  If  you  want  a  speech  this  morning, 
my  friend  and  father-in  law,  Tom  Gradgrind, 
is  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  you  know 
where  to  get  it.  I  am  not  your  man.  How- 
ever, if  I  teel  a  little  independent  when  I  look 
around  this  table  to  day,  and  reflect  how  little 
I  thought  of  marrying  Tom  Gradgrind's  daugh- 
ter when  I  was  a  ragged  street-boy,  who  never 
washed  his  face  unless  it  was  at  a  pump,  and 
that  not  oftener  than  once  a  fortnight,  I  hope 
I  may  be  excused.  So,  I  hope  you  like  my 
feeling  independent;  if  you  dou't,  I  can't  help 
it.  I  do  feel  independent.  Now,  I  have  men- 
tioned, and  you  have  mentioned,  that  I  am  this 
day  married  to  Tom  Gradgrind's  daughter.  I 
am  very  glad  to  be  so.  It  has  long  bepn  my 
wish  to  be  so.  I  have  watched  her  bringing 
up,  and  I  believe  she  is  worthy  of  me.  At  the 
same  time — not  to  deceive  you — I  believe  I 
am  worthy  of  her.  So,  I  thank  you,  on  both  our 
parts,  for  the  goodwill  you  have  shown  towards 
us ;  and  the  best  wish  I  can  give  the  unmar- 
ried part  of  the  present  company,  is  this:  I 
hope  every  lachelor  may  find  as  good  a  wife  as 
I  have  found.  And  I  hope  every  spinster  may 
find  as  good  a  husband  as  my  wife  has  found." 

Shortly  after  which  oration,  as  they  were 
going  on  a  nuptial  trip  to  Lyons,  in  order 
that  Mr.  Bounderby  might  take  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  how  the  Hands  got  on  in  those 
parts,  and  whether  they,  too,  required  to  be  fed 
with  gold  spoons;  the  hap[)y  pair  departed  for 
the  railroad.  The  bride,  in  passing  down 
stairs,  dressed  for  her  journey,  found  Tom  wait- 
ing for  her— flushed,  either  with  his  feelings 
or  the  vinous  part  of  the  breakfast. 

"What  a  game  girl  you  are,  to  be  such  a 
first-rate  sister,  Loo  1"  whispered  Tom. 

She  clung  to  him,  as  she  should  have  clung 
to  some  far  better  na'ure  that  day,  and  was  a 
little  shaken  in  her  reserved  composure  for  the 
first  time. 

"Old  Bounderby's  quite  ready,"  said  Tom. 
"Time's  up.  Good  bye!  I  shall  be  on  the 
look-out  for  you  when  you  come  back.  I  say, 
my  dear  Loo  I  An't  it  uncommonly  jolly  now?'" 

CHAPTER  XVIL 

A  SUN'N'Y  midsummer  day.  There  was  such 
a  thing  sometimes,  even  iu  Cukctown. 


Seen  from  a  distance  in  such  weather.  Coke- 
town  lay  shrouded  in  a  haze  of  its  own,  which 
appeared  impervious  to  the  sun's  rays.  You 
only  knew  the  town  was  there,  because  vou 
knew  there  could  have  been  no  such  sulky 
blotch  upon  the  prospect  without  a  town.  A 
blur  of  soot  and  smoke,  now  confusedly  tend- 
ing this  way,  now  that  way,  now  aspiring  to 
the  vault  of  heaven,  now  murkily  creepi  g 
al(  ng  the  earth,  as  the  wind  ruse  and  fell,  or 
changed  its  quarter:  a  dense  formless  jumble, 
with  sheets  of  cross  liglit  in  it,  that  showed 
nothing  but  masses  of  darkness:  Coketown  in 
the  distance  was  suggestive  of  itself,  though 
not  a  brick  of  it  could  be  seen. 

Thf  wonder  was,  it  was  there  at  all.  It 
had  been  ruined  so  often,  that  it  was  amazing 
how  it  had  borne  so  many  shocks.  Surely 
there  never  was  such  fra^'ile  china-ware  as 
that  of  which  the  millers  of  Cokettnvn  were 
made.  Handle  them  never  so  lightly,  and 
they  fell  to  pieces  with  such  ease  that  you 
might  suspect  them  of  having  been  flawed  be- 
fore. They  were  ruined,  when  they  were  re- 
quired to  send  laboring  children  to  school;  they 
were  ruined,  when  inspectors  were  appointed 
to  look  into  their  works;  they  were  ruined,  when 
such  inspectors  considered  it  doubtful  whe- 
ther they  were  quite  justified  in  chopping 
people  up  with  their  machinery;  they  were 
utterly  undone,  when  it  was  hinted  that  per- 
haps they  need  not  always  make  quite  so  much 
smoke.  Besides  Mr.  Bounderby's  gold  spoon 
which  was  generally  received  in  Coketown, 
another  prevalent  fiction  was  very  popular 
there.  It  took  the  form  of  a  threat.  VVhen- 
ever  a  Coketowner  felt  he  was  ill-used — that  is 
to  say,  v/heuever  he  was  not  left  entirely  alone, 
and  it  was  proposed  to  hold  him  accountable 
for  the  consequences  of  any  of  his  acts — he 
was  sure  to  come  out  with  the  awful  menace, 
that  he  would  "sooner  pitch  his  property  into 
the  Atlantic."  This  had  terrified  the  Home 
Secretary  within  an  inch  of  his  life,  on  several 
occasions. 

However,  the  Coketowners  were  so  patriotic 
after  all,  that  the)  never  had  pitched  their  pro- 
perty into  the  Atlantic  yet,  but  on  the  contrary, 
had  been  kind  enough  to  take  mighty  good 
care  of  it.  So  there  it  was,  in  a  haze  yonder; 
and  it  increased  and  multiplied. 

The  streets  were  hot  and  dusty  on  the 
summer  day,  and  the  sun  was  so  bright  that 
it  even  shone  through  the  heavy  vapor 
drooping  over  Coketown,  and  could  not  be 
looked  at  steadily.  Stokers  emerged  from 
low  underground  doorways  into  factory  yards, 
and  sat  on  steps,  and  posts,  and  palings, 
wiping  their  swarthy  visages,  and  contem- 
plating coals.  The  whole  town  seemed  to  be 
frying  in  oil.  There  was  a  stilling  smell  of 
hot  oil  everywhere.  The  steam-engines  shone 
with  it,  the  dresses  of  the  Hands  were  soiled 
with  it, the  mills  throughout  their  many  stories 
oozed  and  trickled  it.  The  atmosphere  of 
those  Fairy  palaces  was  like  the  breath  of  the 
simoom  \  and  their  inhabitants,  wasting  with 


122 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


heat,  toiled  languidly  in  the  desert.  But  no 
temperature  made  the  melancholy  mad 
elephants  more  mad  or  more  sane.  Their 
wearisome  heads  went  up  and  down  at  the 
same  rate,  in  hot  weather  and  cold,  wet 
weather  and  dry,  fair  weather  and  foul.  The 
measured  niolion  of  their  shadows  on  the 
walls,  was  the  substitute  Coketown  had  to 
show  for  the  shadows  of  rustling  woods  5  while 
for  the  summer  hum  of  insects,  it  could  offer, 
all  the  year  round,  from  the  dawn  of  Monday 
to  the  night  of  Saturday,  the  whirr  of  shafts 
aud  wheels. 

Drowsily,  they  whirred  all  through  this 
sunny  day,  making  the  passenger  more  sleepy 
and  more  hot  as  he  passed  the  humming  walls 
of  the  mills.  Sunblinds,  and  sprinklings  of 
water,  a  little  cooled  the  main  streets  and  the 
shops;  but  tiie  mills,  and  the  courts  and  alleys, 
baked  at  a  tierce  heat.  Down  upon  the  river 
that  was  black  and  thick  with  dye,  some  Coke- 
town  boys  who  were  at  large — a  rare  sight 
there — rowed  a  crazy  boat,  which  made  a  spu- 
mous track  upon  the  water  as  it  jogged  along, 
while  every  dip  of  an  oar  stirred  up  vile 
smells.  But  the  sun  itself,  however  be- 
neficent generally,  was  less  kind  to  Coke- 
town  than  hard  frost  and  rarely  looked  in- 
tently into  any  of  its  closer  regions  with- 
out engendering  more  death  than  life, 
bo  does  the  eye  of  Heaven  itself  become  an 
evil  eye,  when  incapable  or  sordid  hands  are 
interposed  between  it  and  the  things  it  looks 
upon  to  bless. 

Mrs.  Sparsit  sat  in  her  afternoon  apartment 
at  the  Bank,  on  the  shadier  side  of  the  frying 
street.  Ullicehours  were  over;  and  at  that 
period  of  the  day,  in  warm  weather,  she  usually 
embellished  with  her  genteel  presence,  a  mana- 
gerial board-room  over  the  public  office.  Her 
own  private  sitting-room  was  a  story  higher, 
at  the  window  of  which  post  of  observation 
she  was  ready,  every  morning,  to  greet  Mr. 
Bounderby  as  he  came  across  the  road,  with 
the  sympathising  recognition  appropriate  to  a 
Victim.  He  had  been  married  now,  a  year  ; 
and  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  never  released  him  from 
her  determined  pity  a  moment. 

The  Bank  oifered  no  violence  to  the  whole- 
some monotony  of  the  town.  It  was  another 
red  brick  house,  with  black  outside  shutters, 
green  inside  blinds,  a  black  street  door  up  two 
white  steps,  a  brazen  door-plate  and  a  brazen 
door  handle  full  stop.  It  was  a  size  larger  than 
Mr.  Bounderby's  house,  as  other  houses  were 
from  a  Bize  to  half-a-dozen  sizes  smaller;  in  all 
other  particulars,  it  was  strictly  according  to 
pattern. 

Mrs.  Sparsit  was  conscious  that  by  coming 
in  the  evening-tide  among  the  desks  and 
writing  implements,  she  shed  a  feminine,  not 
to  say  also  aristocratic,  grace  upon  the  otBce. 
Seated,  with  her  needlework  or  netting  appara- 
tus, at  the  window,  she  had  a  self-laudatory 
sense  of  correcting,  by  her  lady-like  deport- 
ment, the  rude  business  aspect  of  the  place. 
With  this  impression  of  her  interesting  char- 


acter upon  her,  Mrs.  Sparsit  considered  her- 
self, in  some  sort,  the  Bank  Fairy.  The  towns- 
people who,  in  their  passing  and  re-passing, 
saw  her  there,  regarded  her  as  the  Bank 
Dragon,  keeping  watcli  over  the  treasures  of 
the  mine. 

What  those  treasures  were,  Mrs.  Sparsit 
knew  as  little  as  they  did.  Gold  and  silver 
coin,  precious  paper,  secrets  that  if  divulged 
would  bring  vague  destruction  upon  vague 
persons  (generally,  however,  people  whom 
she  disliked),  were  the  chief  items  in  her 
ideal  catalogue  thereof.  For  the  rest,  she 
knew  that  after  office  hours,  she  reigned  su- 
preme over  all  the  office  furniture,  and  over  a 
locked  up  iron  room  with  three  locks,  against 
the  door  of  which  strong  chamber  the  light 
porter  laid  his  head  every  ni^^ht,  on  a  truc-kle 
bed  that  disappeartd  at  cockcrow.  Further, 
she  was  lady  paramount  over  certain  vaults 
in  the  basements,  sharply  spiked  off  from 
communication  with  the  predatory  world;  and 
over  the  relics  of  the  current  day's  work,  con- 
sisting of  blots  of  ink,  worn  out  pens,  frag- 
ments of  wafers,  and  scraps  of  paper  torn  so 
small,  that  nothing  interesting  could  ever  be 
deciphered  on  them  when  Mrs.  Sparsit 
tried.  Lastly,  she  was  guardian  over  a  little 
armory  of  cutlasses  and  carbines,  arrayed 
in  vengeful  order  above  one  of  the  official 
chimney-pieces ;  and  over  that  respectable 
tradition  never  to  be  separated  from  a  place  of 
business  claiming  to  be  wealthy — a  row  of  fire- 
buckets — vessels  calculated  to  be  of  no  physi- 
cal utility  on  any  occasion,  but  observed  to 
exercise  a  fine  moral  influence,  almost  equal  10 
bullion,  on  most  beholders. 

A  deaf  serving- woman  and  the  light  porter 
completed  Mrs.  Sparsit's  empire.  The  deaf 
serving-woman  was  rumored  to  be  wealthy ;  and 
a  saying  had  tor  many  years  gone  about  among 
the  lower  orders  of  Coketown,  that  she  would 
be  murdered  some  night  when  the  Bank  was 
shut,  for  the  sake  of  her  money.  It  was 
generally  considered,  indeed,  that  she  had 
been  due  some  time,  and  ought  to  have  fkllen 
long  ago ;  but  she  had  kept  her  life,  and  her 
situation,  with  an  ill-conditioned  tenacity  that 
occasioned  much  offence  and  disappointment. 

Mrs.  Sparsit's  tea  was  just  set  for  her  on  a 
pert  little  table,  with  its  tripod  of  legs  in  an 
attitude,  which  she  insinuated  after  office 
.hours,  into  the  company  of  the  stern,  eath  rn 
topped,  long  board-table  that  bestrode  the 
middle  of  the  room.  The  light  porter  placed 
the  tea-tray  on  it,  knuckling  his  forehead  as 
a  form  of  homage. 

''Thank  you,  Bitzer,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

''Thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  the  light 
porter.  He  was  a  very  light  porter  indeed ; 
as  light  as  in  the  days  when  he  blinkingly 
defined  a  horse,  for  ^irl  number  twenty. 

"All  is  shut  up,  Bitzer?'    said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"All  is  shut  up,  ma'am." 

"And  what,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  pouring 
out  her  tea,  "is  the  news  of  the  day  ?  Any- 
thing?" 


HARD  TLMES. 


123 


"Well,  ma'am,  I  can't  say  that  I  have  heard 
anything  particular.  Our  people  are  a  bad 
lot,  ma'am  J  but  that  is  no  news,  unfortu- 
nately." 

"What  are  the  restless  wretches  doing  now?'' 
asked  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"Merely  going  on  in  the  old  way,  ma'am. 
Uniting,  and  leaguing,  and  engaging  to  stand 
by  one  another." 

"It  is  much  to  be  regretted,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  making  her  nose  more  Roman  and 
her  eyebrows  more  Coriolaiiian  in  thestrem^th 
of  her  severity,  "ihat  the  united  masters  allow 
of  any  such  class  combinations." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer. 

"  Being  united  themselves,  they  ought  one 
and  all  to  set  their  faces  against  employing  any 
man  who  is  united  with  any  other  man,"'  said 
Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"They  have  done  that,  ma'am,"  returned 
Bitzer;  "but — it  rather  fell  through,  ma'am." 

"I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  these 
things,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  dignity,  "my 
lot  having  been  originally  cast  in  a  widely  dif- 
ferent sphere;  and  Mr.  Sparsit,  as  a  Powler, 
being  also  quite  out  of  the  pale  of  any  such 
dissensions.  I  only  know  that  these  people 
must  be  conquered,  and  that  it's  high  time  it 
was  done,  once  for  all." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Bitzer,  with  a 
deniunstratiou  of  great  respect  for  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit's  oracular  authority.  "You  couldn't  put  it 
clearer,  I  am  sure,  ma'am." 

As  this  was  his  usual  hour  for  having  a  lit- 
tle contiilential  chat  with  Mrs.  Sparsit,  and  as 
he  had  already  caught  her  eye  and  seen  that 
fclie  was  going  to  ask  him  something,  he  made 
a  pretence  of  arranging  the  rult;rs,  inkstands, 
and  so  forth,  while  that  lady  went  on  wiih  her 
tea,  glancing  through  the  open  window  down 
into  the  street. 

"Has  it  been  a  busy  day,  Bitzer?''  asked  Mrs. 
Sparsit. 

"  Not  a  very  busy  day,  my  lady.  About  an 
average  day."  He  now  and  then  slided  into 
uiv  lady,  instead  of  ma'am,  as  an  involuntary 
acknowledgment  of  Mrs.  Sparait's  personal 
dignity  and  claims  to  reverence. 

'•The  clerks,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  carefully 
brushing  an  imperceptible  crumb  of  bread  and 
butter  from  her  left-hand  mitten,  "are  trust- 
worthy, punctual,  and  industrious,  of  course?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  pretty  fair  ma'am.  With  the 
usual  exception." 

He  held  the  respectable  office  of  general 
spy  and  informer  in  the  establishment,  for 
which  volunteer  service  he  received  a  pre- 
sent at  Christmas,  over  and  above  his  weekly 
wage.  He  had  grown  into  an  extremely  clear- 
headed, cautious,  prudent  young  man,  who 
was  safe  to  rise  in  the  world.  His  mind  was 
80  exactly  regulated,  that  he  had  no  affections 
or  passions.  All  his  prjceedings  were  the 
result  of  the  nicest  and  coldest  calculation  ; 
and  it  was  not  without  cause  that  Mrs.  Sparsit 
habitually  observed  of  him,  that  he  was  a 
young  man  of  the  steadiest  principle  she  had 


ever  known.  Having  satisiied  himself,  e>D 
his  father's  death,  that  his  mother  had  a  right 
of  settlement  in  Coketown,  this  excellent 
young  economist  had  asserted  that  right  for 
her  with  such  a  steadfast  adherence  to  the 
principle  of  the  case,  that  she  had  been  shut 
up  in  the  workhouse  ever  since.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  he  allowed  her  half  a  pound  of 
tea  a  year,  which  was  weak  in  him  ;  first, 
because  all  gifts  have  an  inevitable  tendency 
to  pauperize  the  recipient,  and  secondly,  be- 
cause his  only  reasonable  transaction  in  that 
commodity  would  have  been  to  buy  it  for  as 
little  as  he  could  poss:bly  give,  and  sell  it  for 
as  much  as  he  could  possibly  get ;  it  having 
been  clearly  ascertained  by  philosophers  that 
in  this  is  comprised  the  whole  duty  of  man — 
not  a  part  of  man's  duty,  but  the  whole. 

"Pretty  fair,  ma'am.  With  the  usual  excep- 
tion, ma'am,"  repeated  Bitzer. 

"Ah — h!"  s-iid  Mrs.  Sparsit,  shaking  her 
head  over  her  tea-cup,  and  taking  a  long  gulp. 

"Mr.  Thomas,  ma'am,  I  doubt  Mr.  Thomas 
very  much,  ma'am,  I  don't  like  his  ways  at 
all." 

"Bitzer,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  in  a  very  im- 
pressive manner,  "do  you  recollect  my  having 
said  anything  to  you  respecting  names?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  It's  quite  true 
that  you  did  object  to  names  being  used,  and 
they're  always  best  avoided." 

"Please  to  remember  that  I  have  a  charge 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  her  air  of 
state.  "  I  hold  a  trust  here,  Bitzer,  under 
Mr.  Bounderby.  However  improbable  both 
Mr.  Bounderby  and  myself  might  have  deem- 
ed it  years  ago,  that  he  would  ever  become 
my  patron,  making  me  an  annual  compli- 
ment, I  cannot  but  regard  him  in  that  light. 
From  Mr.  Bounderby  I  have  received  every 
acknowledgment  of  my  social  station,  and 
every  recognition  of  my  family  descent,  that 
I  could  possibly  expect.  More,  far  more. 
Therefore,  to  my  patron  I  will  be  scrupuluusly 
true.  And  I  do  not  consider,  I  will  not  con- 
sider, I  cannot  consider,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
with  a  most  extensive  stock  on  hand  of  hunur 
and  morality,  "that  I  should  be  scrupulouftiv 
true,  if  I  allowed  names  to  be  mentioneti 
under  this  roof,  that  are  unfortunately — most 
unfortunately— no  doubt  of  that — connected 
with  his." 

Bitzerknuckled  his  forehead  again,  and  again 
begued  pardon. 

"No,  Bitzer,"  continued  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "say 
an  individual,  and  I  will  hear  you  ;  say  Mr. 
Thomas,  and  you  must  excuse  me." 

"  With  the  usual  exception,  ma'am;"  said 
Bitzer,  trying  back,  "of  an  indvidual."' 

"  Ah — h !"  Mrs.  Sparsit  repeated  the  ejacu- 
lation, the  shake  of  the  head  over  her  tea-cup, 
and  the  long  gulp,  as  taking  up  the  conversa- 
tion a;,'ain  at  the  point  where  it  had  been  in- 
terrupted. 

"An  individual,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer,  "has 
lever  been  what  lie  onglit  to  have  been,  since 
he  first  came  into  the  place.     He  is  a  dissipa- 


124 


DICKEXS'   NEW   STORIES. 


ted,  extravagant  idler.  He  is  not  worth  his 
salt,  ma'aui.  He  wouldu't  get  it  either,  if 
he  hadn't  a  friend  aud  relation  at  court, 
ma'nin  I" 

"Ah — h!"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  another 
melancholy  shake  ut  her  head. 

"  I  only  hujie,  nia'ani,"  pursued  Bitzer, 
"that  his  friend  and  relation  may  not  supply 
him  with  the  means  of  carrying  on.  Other- 
wise, ma'am,  we  Unuw  out  of  whose  pocket 
that  money  comes." 

"Ah — h  I"  sighed  Mrs.  Sparsit  again,  with 
another  melancholy  shake  of  her  head. 

"fie  is  to  be  pilled,  ma'am.  The  last  party 
I  have  alluded  to,  is  to  be  pitied,  ma'am,"  said 
Bitzer. 

"Yes,  Bitzer,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "I  have 
always  pitied  the  delusion,  always." 

"As  to  an  individual,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer, 
dropping  his  voice  and  drawing  nearer,  ''he 
is  as  improvident  as  any  of  the  people  in  this 
town.  And  you  know  what  tlieir  improvi- 
dence is,  ma'am.  No  one  could  wish  to  know 
it  better  than  a  lady  of  your  eminence  does." 

"  fhey  would  do  well,"  returned  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit,  ''to  take  example  by  you,  Bitzer." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  But,  since  you  do 
refer  to  me,  now  look  at  me,  ma'am.  I  have 
put  by  a  little,  ma'am,  already.  Th>it  gratuity 
which  I  receive  at  Christmas,  ma'am:  I  never 
touch  it.  I  don't  even  go  the  length  of  my 
wages,  though  they're  not  high,  ma'am.  Why 
cati'l  they  do  as  I  have  done,  ma'am  ?  What 
one  person  can  do,  another  can  do." 

This,  again,  was  among  the  fictions  of  Coke- 
town.  Any  capitalist  there,  who  had  made 
si.vtv  thou.>and  pounds  out  of  sixpence,  always 
protes-ed  to  wonder  why  the  sixty  thousand 
nearest  tiands  didn't  each  make  sixty  thou- 
sand pounds  out  of  sixpence,  and  more  or  li.'ss 
reproached  them  everyone  for  not  accomplish- 
ing the  little  feat.  What  I  did,  you  can  do. 
Why  don't  you  go  aud  do  it? 

"As  to  their  wanting  recreations,  ma'am," 
said  Bitzer,  "it's  stuff  and  nonsense.  /  don't 
want  recreations.  I  never  did,  and  I  never 
shall;  I  dun't  like  'em.  As  to  their  combi- 
ning together  ;  there  are  many  of  them,  I  have 
no  doubt,  that  by  watching  and  informing 
upon  one  another  could  earn  a  trifle  now  and 
then,  whether  in  money  or  good  will,  and  im- 
prove their  livelihood.  Then,  why  don't  they 
improve  it,  ma'am  ?  It's  the  first  considera- 
tion of  a  rational  creature,  and  it's  what  they 
pretend  to  want." 

"  Pretend  indeed !"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  constantly  hearing, 
ma'am,  till  it  becomes  quite  nauseous,  con- 
cerning their  wives  and  families,"  said  Bitzer. 
"Why  look  at  ae,  ma'am  I  I  don't  want  a 
wife  and  family.     Why  should  they  ?" 

"Because  they  are  improvident,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Bitzer,  "  that's 
where  it  is.  If  they  were  more  provident,  and 
less  perverse,  ma'am,  what  would  they  do? 
They  would  say,   *  While   my   hat  covers    my 


family,'  or,  'while  my  bonnet  covers  my  family' 
— as  the  case  might  be,  ma'am — '  I  have  only 
one  to  feed,  and  that's  the  person  I  most  like 
to  feed.' " 

"  To  be  sure,"  assented  Mrs.  Sparsit,  eating 
muffin. 

'•  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer,  knuck 
ling  his  for  head  again,  in  return  for  the 
favour  of  Mrs.  Sparsit's  improving  conversa- 
tion. "Would  yuu  wish  a  little  more  hot  water, 
iHa'am,  or  is  there  anything  else  that  I  could 
fetch  you  ?" 

"Nothing  just  now.  Bitzer." 

"  riiank  you  ma'am.  I  shouldn't  wish  to 
disturb  you  at  y(  ur  meals,  ma'am,  pnrticularly 
tea,  knowing  your  partiality  for  it,"  said  Bitzer, 
c  ailing  a  little  to  look  over  into  the  street 
fri^m  where  lie  stood;  "but  there's  a  gentleman 
been  looking  up  here  for  a  minute  or  so, 
ma'am,  and  he  has  come  across  as  if  he  was 
guiiiff  to  knock.  That  is  his  knock,  ma'am,  no 
doubt." 

He  stepped  to  the  window  ;  and  looking  out, 
a-nd  drawing  in  his  head  again,  confirmed  him- 
self with,  "Yes,  ma'am.  Would  you  wish  the 
gentleman  to  be  shown  in,  ma'am  ?" 

"I  don't  know  who  it  can  be,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsi',  wiping  her  mouth  and  arranging  her 
mittens. 

"A  stranger,  ma'am,  evidently." 

"What  a  stranger  can  want  at  the  Bank  at 
this  time  of  the  evening,  unless  he  comes  upon 
some  business  for  which  he  is  too  late,  I  dun't 
know,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit;  "but  I  hohl  a  chart;e 
in  this  establishment  from  Mr.  Bounderby,  and 
I  will  never  shrink  from  it.  If  to  see  him  is 
any  part  of  the  duty  I  have  accepted,  I  will  see 
him.     Use  your  own  discretion,  Bitzer." 

Here  the  visitor,  all  unconscious  of  Mrs. 
Sparsit's  maijnanimous  words,  repeated  his 
knock  so  loudly  that  the  light  porter  hastened 
down  to  open  the  door;  while  Mrs.  Sparsit  took 
the  precaution  of  concealing  her  little  table, 
with  all  its  appliances  upon  it,  in  a  cupboard, 
and  then  decamjied  up  stairs  that  she  might 
appear,  if  needful,  with  greater  dignity. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  the  gentleman  would 
wish  to  see  you,"  said  Bitzer,  with  his  li^'bt 
eye  at  Mrs.  Sparsit's  keyhole.  So,  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit, who  had  improved  the  interval  by  touching 
up  her  cap,  took  her  classical  features  down 
staiis  again,  and  entered  the  board  room  ia 
the  manner  of  a  Roman  matron  going  outside 
the  city  walls  to  treat  with  an  invading  general. 

The  visiter  having  strolled  to  the  windo^v, 
and  being  then  engaged  in  looking  carelessly 
out,  was  as  unmoved  by  this  impressive  entry 
as  mm  could  possibly  be.  He  stood  whistling 
to  himS'Mf  m  h  all  imaginable  coolness,  with 
ais  hat  sti  1  on,  and  a  certain  air  of  exhaustion 
up  in  him,  in  part  arising  from  excessive 
summer  and  in  part  from  excessive  gentility. 
For,  it  vas  to  be  seen  with  half  an  eye  that  he 
wis  a  thorou  di  gentleman,  made  to  the  model 
ot'the  time;  weary  of  everything,  and  putting 
no  m  jre  faith  m  anything  than  Lucifer. 


HARD  TIMES. 


125 


"I  believe,  sir,"  quoth  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "you 
wished  to  see  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  turning  and 
removing  his  hat;  "pray  excuse  me." 

"Humph!"  thought  Mrs.  Sparsit,  as  she 
made  a  stately  bend.  ''Five  and  thirty,  good 
looking,  good  figure,  good  teeth,  good  voice, 
good  breediag,  well  dressed,  dark  hair,  bold 
eyes."  All  which  Mrs.  Sparsit  observed  in 
her  womanly  way — like  the  Sultan  who  put 
his  head  in  the  pail  of  water — merely  in  dip- 
ping down  and  coming  up  again. 

"Please  to  be  seated,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"Thauk  you.  Allow  me."  He  placed  a 
chair  for  her,  but  remained  himself  carelessly 
lounging  against  the  table.  "1 1.  ft  my  servant 
at  the  railway  looking  after  the  lugfjage — very 
heavy  train  and  vast  quantity  of  it  in  the  van 
— and  strolled  on,  looking  about  me.  Ex- 
ceedingly odd  place.  Will  you  allow  me  to 
ask  you  if  it's  always  as  black  as  this?" 

"In  general  much  blacker,"  returned  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  in  her  uncompromising  way. 

"  Is  it  pos&ible  !  Excuse  me  :  you  are  not 
a  native,  I  think  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit.  It  was 
once  ray  good  or  ill  fortune,  as  it  may  be — be- 
fore I  became  a  widow — to  move  in  a  very  dif 
ferent  sphere.     My  husband  was  a  Powler." 

"Beg  your  pardon,  really  !"  said  the  stran- 
ger.    "Was—?" 

Mrs.  Sparsit  repeated,  "A  Pswler."  "Pow- 
ler Family,"  said  the  stranger,  after  reflecting 
a  few  moments.  Mrs.  Sparsit  signified  assent. 
The  stranger  seemed  a  little  more  fatigued 
than  before. 

"You  must  be  very  much  bored  here?"  was 
the  inference  he  drew  from  the  communica- 
tion. 

"I  am  the  servant  of  circumstances,  sir," 
said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "and  I  have  long  adapted 
myself  to  the  governing  power  of  my  life." 

"Very  philosophical,"  returned  the  stranger, 
"and  very  exemplary  and  laudable,  and — " 
It  seemed  to  be  scarcely  worth  his  while  to 
finish  the  hentence,  so  he  played  with  his 
watch-chain  wearily. 

"May  I  be  permitted  to  ask,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  to  what  I  am  indebted  for  the  favour 
of—" 

"Assuredly,"  said  the  stranger.  "Much 
obliged  to  you  for  reminding  me.  I  am  the 
bearer  of  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Mr.  Boun- 
derby  the  Banker.  Walking  through  this  extra- 
ordinarily black  town,  while  they  were  getting 
dinner  ready  at  the  hotel,  I  asked  a  fellow 
whom  I  met;  one  of  the  working  people  ;  who 
appeared  to  have  been  taking  a  shower-bath 
of  something  fluffy,  which  I  assume  to  be  the 
raw  material ; — " 

Mrs.  Sparsit  inclined  her  head. 

" — Raw  material — where  Mr.  Bounderby 
the  Banker,  might  reside.  Upon  which,  mis- 
led no  doubt  by  the  word  Banker,  he  directed 
me  to  the  Bank.  Fact  being,  I  presume,  that 
Mr,  Bounderby  the  Banker,  does  not  reside  in 


the  edifice  in  which  I  have  the  honour  of  offer- 
ing this  explanation  ?" 

"No,  sir,  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "he  does 
not." 

"Thank  you.  I  had  no  intention  of  deliver- 
ing my  letter  at  the  present  moment,  nor  have 
I.  But,  strollnig  on  to  the  Bank  to  kill 
time,  and  having  the  good  fortune  to  observe 
at  the  window,"  towards  which  he  languidly 
waved  his  hand,  then  slightly  bowed,  "a  lady 
of  a  very  superior  and  agreeable  appearance,  I 
considered  thtit  1  could  nut  do  better  than  take 
the  liberty  of  asking  that  lady  where  Mr.  Boun- 
derby the  Banker,  does  live.  Which  I  accord- 
ingly venture,  with  all  suitable  apologies,  to 
do." 

The  inattention  and  indolence  of  his  manner 
were  suthciently  relieved,  to  Mrs.  Sparsit's 
thinking,  by  a  certain  gallantry  at  ease,  which 
offered  her  homage  too.  Here  he  was,  for  in- 
stance, at  this  moment,  all  but  sitting  on  the 
table,  and  yet  lazily  bending  over  her,  as  if  he 
acknowledged  an  attraction  in  her  that  made 
her  charming — in  her  way. 

"Banks,  I  know,  are  always  suspicious,  and 
officially  must  be,"  said  the  stranger,  wliose 
lightness  and  smoothness  of  speech  were 
pleasant  likewise;  suggesting  matter  far  more 
sensible  and  humorous  than  it  ever  contained 
— which  was  perhaps  a  shrewd  device  of  the 
founder  of  this  numerous  sect,  whosoever  may 
have  been  that  great  man  ;  "therefore  I  may 
observe  that  my  letter — here  it  is — is  from  the 
member  for  tuis  place — Gradgrind — whom  I 
have  had  the  ple;^sure  of  knowing  in  London." 

Mrs.  Sparsit  recognised  the  hand,  intimated 
that  such  confirmation  was  quite  unnecessary, 
and  gave  Mr.  Bounderby's  address,  with  all 
needful  clues  and  directions  in  aid. 

"Thousand  thanks,"  said  the  stranger.  "Of 
course  you  know  the  Banker  well  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "In  my 
dependent  relation  towards  him,  I  have  known 
him  ten  years." 

"Quite  nn  eternity  !  I  think  he  married 
Gradgrind's  daughter?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  suddenly  com- 
pressing her  mouth.      "He  had  that — honor." 

"The  lady  is  quite  a  philosopher,  I  am  told?" 

"Indeed,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit.     Is  she?" 

"Excuse  my  impertinent  curiosity,"  pursued 
the  stranger,  fluttering  over  Mrs.  Sparsit's  eye- 
brows, with  a  propitiatory  air,  "but  you  know 
the  family,  and  know  the  world.  I  am  about 
to  know  the  family,  and  may  have  much  to 
do  with  them.  Is  the  lady  so  very  alarming  ? 
Her  father  gives  her  such  a  portentously  hard- 
headed  reputation,  that  I  have  a  burnitig  de- 
sire to  know.  Is  she  absolutely  unapproach- 
able? Repellently  and  stunningly  clever?  I 
see,  by  your  meaning  smile,  you  think  not. 
You  have  poured  balm  into  my  anxious  soul. 
As  to  age,  now.     Forty?  Five  and  thirty?" 

Mrs.  Sparsit  laughed  outright.  "A  chit," 
said  she.  "Not  twenty  when  she  was  mar- 
ried" 

"I  give  you  my  honor,  Mrs.  Powler,"  return- 


126 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


ed  the  stranger,  detaching  himself  from  the 
table,  "  that  I  never  was  so  astonished  in  my 
life!" 

It  really  did  seem  to  impress  him,  to  the 
utmost  extent  of  his  capacity  of  being  impress- 
ed, lie  looked  at  his  informant  for  full  a 
quarter  of  a  minute,  and  appeared  to  have  the 
surprise  in  his  mind  all  the  time.  "  I  assure 
you,  Mrs.  Powler,"  he  then  said,  much  ex- 
hausted, ''  that  the  father's  manner  prepared 
me  for  a  grim  and  slony  maturity.  I  am 
obliged  to  you,  of  all  things,  fur  correcting  so 
absurd  a  mistake.  Pray  excuse  my  intrusion. 
Many  thanks.     Good  day !" 

He  bowed  himself  out  ;  and  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
hiding  in  the  window-curtain,  saw  him  languish- 
ing down  the  street  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
way,  observed  of  all  the  town. 

*'  What  do  you  think  of  the  gentleman, 
Bitzer  ?"  she  asked  the  light  porter,  when  he 
came  to  take  away. 

"Spends  a  deal  of  money  on  his  dress, 
ma'am." 

"It  must  be  admitted,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
"that  it's  very  tasteful." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"'  returned  Bitzer,  "if  that's 
worth  the  money." 

"Besides  which,  ma'am,"  resumed  Bitzer, 
while  he  was  polishing  the  table,  "he  looks  to 
me  as  if  he  gamed." 

"It's  immoral  to  game,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"It's  ridiculous,  ma'am,"  said  Bitzer,  "be- 
cause the  chances  are  against  the  players." 

Whether  it  was  that  the  heat  prevented  Mrs. 
Sparsit  from  working,  or  whether  it  was  that 
her  hand  was  out,  she  did  no  work  that  night. 
She  sat  at  the  window,  when  the  sun  began  to 
sink  behind  the  smoke;  she  sat  there,  when  the 
smoke  was  burning  red,  when  the  color  faded 
from  it,  when  darkness  seemed  to  rise  slowly 
out  of  the  ground,  and  creep  upward,  upward, 
up  to  the  house-tops,  up  the  church  steeple,  up 
to  the  snmmitsof  the  factory  chimneys,  up  to  the 
sky.  Without  a  candle  in  the  room,  Mrs.  Sparsit 
sat  at  the  window,  with  her  hands  b'ifore  her, 
not  thinking  much  of  the  sounds  of  evening; 
the  whooping  of  boys,  the  barking  of  dogs, 
the  rumbling  .of  wheels,  the  steps  and  voices 
of  passengers,  the  shrill  street  cries,  the  clogs 
upon  the  pavement  when  it  was  their  hour  for 
going  by,  the  shutting-up  of  shop-shutters. 
Not  until  ihe  light  porter  announced  that  her 
nocturnal  sweetbread  was  ready,  did  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit arouse  herself  from  her  reverie,  and  convey 
her  dense  black  eyebrows — by  that  time 
creased  with  meditation,  as  if  they  needed 
ironing  out — up  stairs. 

"0,  you  Fool!"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  when  she 
was  alone  at  her  supper.  Whom  she  meant, 
she  did  not  say;  but  she  could  scarcely  have 
meant  the  sweetbread. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  Gradgrind  party  wanted  assistance  in 
murdering  the  Graces.  They  went  about  re- 
cruiting; and  where  could  they  enlist  recruits 


more  readily,  than  among  the  fine  gentlemen 
who,  having  found  out  everything  to  be  worth 
nothing,  were  equally  ready  for  anything  ? 

Moreover,  the  healthy  spirits  who  had  mounted 
to  this  sublime  height  were  attractive  to  many 
of  the  Gradgrind  school.  They  liked  line  gen- 
tlemen; they  pretended  that  they  did  not,  but 
they  did.  They  became  exhausted  in  imita- 
tion of  them;  and  they  yaw-yawed  in  their 
speech  like  them;  and  they  served  out,  with  an 
enervated  air,  the  little  mouldy  rations  of  po- 
litical economy,  on  which  they  regaled  their 
disciples.  There  never  before  was  seen  on 
earth  such  a  wonderful  hybrid  race  as  was  thus 
produced. 

Among  the  fine  gentlemen  not  regularly  be- 
longing to  the  Gradj^rind  school,  there  wasone 
of  a  good  family  and  a  better  appearance,  with 
a  happy  turn  of  humor  which  had  told  im- 
mensely with  the  House  of  Commons  on  the 
occasion  of  his  entertaining  it  with  his  (and 
the  Board  of  Directors')  view  of  a  railway 
accident,  in  which  the  most  careful  ollicers 
ever  known,  employed  by  the  most  liberal 
managers  ever  beard  o\',  assisted  by  the  finest 
mechanical  contrivances  ever  devised,  the 
whole  in  action  on  the  best  line  ever  con- 
structed, had  killed  five  people  and  wounded 
thirty-two,  by  a  casualty  without  which  the 
excellence  of  the  whole  system  would  have 
been  positively  incomplete.  Among  the  slain 
was  a  cow,  and  among  the  scattered  articles 
unowned,  a  widow's  cap.  And  the  honorable 
member  had  so  tickled  the  House  (which 
has  a  delicate  sense  of  humor)  by  putting 
the  cap  on  the  cow,  that  it  became  impatieut 
of  any  serious  reference  to  the  Coroner's  In- 
quest, and  brought  the  railway  off  with  Cheers 
and  Laughter. 

Now,  this  gentleman  had  a  younger  bro- 
ther of  still  better  appearance  than  himself, 
who  had  tried  life  as  a  Cornet  of  Dragoons, 
and  found  it  a  bore;  and  had  afterwards  tried 
it  in  the  train  of  an  English  minister  abroad, 
and  found  it  a  bore  ;  and  had  then  strulled  to 
Jerusalem,  and  got  bored  there;  and  had  then 
gone  yachting  about  the  world,  and  got  bored 
everywhere.  To  whom  this  honorable  and  jocu- 
lar member  fraternally  said  one  day,  "Jem, 
there's  a  good  opening  among  the  hard  Fact 
fellows,  and  they  want  men.  I  wonder  you 
don't  go  in  for  statistics."  Jem,  rather 
taken  by  the  novelty  of  the  idea,  and  very 
hard  up  for  a  change,  was  as  ready  to  "  go 
in"  for  statistics  as  for  anything  else.  So,  he 
went  in.  He  coached  himself  up  with  a  blue 
book  or  two ;  and  his  brother  put  it 
about  among  the  hard  Fact  fellows,  and  sail, 
"If  you  want  to  bring  in,  for  any  place,  a 
handsome  dog  who  can  make  you  a  devilish 
good  speech,  look  after  my  brother  Jem,  for 
he's  your  man."  After  a  few  dashes  in  the 
public  meeting  way,  Mr.  Gradgrind  and  a 
council  of  political  sagps  approved  of  Jem,  and 
it  was  resolved  to  send  him  down  to  Coketown, 
to  become  known  there  and  in  the  neighbor- 
hood.    Hence  the  letter  Jem  had  lasu  night 


HARD  TIMES. 


127 


shown  to  Mrs.  Sparsit,  which  Mr.  Bounderby 
now  held  in  his  hand ;  superscribed,  "Josiah 
Bounderby,  Esquire,  Banker,  Coketown.  Spe- 
cially to  introduce  James  Harthouse,  Esquire. 
Thomas  Gradgrind." 

Within  an  hour  of  the  receipt  of  this  de- 
spatch and  Mr.  James  Harthouse's  card,  Mr. 
Bounderby  put  on  his  hat  and  went  down  to 
the  Hotel.  There,  he  found  Mr.  James  Hart- 
house  looking  out  of  the  window,  in  a  state  ot 
mind  so  disconsolate,  that  he  was  already  half 
disposed  to  "  go  in  "  for  something  else. 

"  My  name,  sir,"  said  his  visitor, ''  is  Josiah 
Bounderby  of  Coketown." 

Mr.  James  Harthouse  was  very  happy 
indeed  (though  he  scarcely  looked  soj,to  have 
a  pleasure  he  had  long  expected. 

"Coketown,  sir,"  said  Bounderby,  obstinately 
taking  a  chair,  "is  not  the  kind  of  place  you 
have  been  accustomed  to.  Therefore,  if  you'll 
allow  me — or  whether  you  will  or  not,  for  I 
am  a  plain  man — I'll  tell  you  something  about 
it  befoi'e  we  go  any  further." 

Mr.  Harthoue  would  be  charmed. 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  said  Boun- 
derby. "I  don't  promise  it.  First  of  all, 
you  see  our  smoke.  That's  meat  and  drink 
to  us.  It's  the  healthiest  thing  in  the  world 
in  all  respects,  and  particularly  for  the 
lungs.  If  you  are  one  of  those  who  want  us 
to  consume  it,  I  differ  from  you.  We  are  not 
going  to  wear  the  bottoms  of  our  boilers  out 
any  faster  than  we  wear  'em  out  now,  for  all 
the  humbugging  sentiment  in  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland." 

By  way  of  "going  in"  to  the  fullest  extent, 
Mr.  Harthouse  rejoined,  "  Mr.  Bounderby,  I 
assure  you  I  am  entirely  and  completely  of 
your  way  ofthiuking.     On  conviction." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Bounderby. 
"Now  you  have  heard  a  lot  of  talk  about  the 
work  in  our  mills,  no  doubt.  You  have  ? 
Very  good.  I'll  state  the  fact  ot  it  to  you. 
It's  the  pleasautest  work  there  is,  and  it's  the 
liiihtest  work  there  is,  and  it's  the  best  paid 
work  there  is.  More  than  that,  we  couldn't  im- 
prove the  mills  themselves,  unless  we  laid  down 
Turkey  carpets  on  the  floors.  Which  we're 
not  a-going  to  do." 

"Mr.  Bounderby,  perfectly  right." 

"Lastly,"  said  Bounderby,  "as  to  our  Hands. 
There's  not  a  Hand  in  this  town,  sir,  man,  wo- 
man, or  child,  but  has  one  ultimate  object  in 
life.  That  object  is,  to  be  fed  on  turtle  soup 
and  venison  with  a  gold  spoon.  Now,  they're 
not  a-going — none  of  'em — ever  to  be  fed  on 
turtle  soup  and  venison  with  a  gold  spoon. 
And  now  you  know  the  place." 

Mr.  Harthouse  professed  himself  in  the 
highest  degree  instructed  and  refreshed,  by  this 
condensed  epitome  of  the  whole  Coketown 
question. 

"Why,  you  see,"  replied  Mr.  Bounderby,  "it 
suits  my  disposition  to  have  a  full  understand- 
ing with  a  man,  particularly  with  a  public 
man,  when  I  make  his  acquaintance.  I  have 
ouly  one  thing  more  to  say  to  you,  Mr.  Hart- 


house, before  assuring  you  of  the  pleasure  with 
which  I  shall  respond,  to  the  utmost  of  my 
poor  ability,  to  my  friend  Tom  Gradgrind'a 
letter  of  introduction.  You  are  a  man  of  family. 
Don't  you  deceive  yourself  by  supposing  for  a 
moment  that  1  am  a  man  of  family.  I  am  a 
bit  of  dirty  riff-raff,  and  a  genuine  scrap  of  tag, 
rag,  and  bobtail." 

If  anything  could  have  exalted  Jem's  in- 
terest in  Mr.  Bounderby,  it  would  have  been 
this  very  circumstance.     Or,  so  he  told  him. 

"  So  now,"  said  Bounderby,  "  we  may 
shake  hands  on  equal  terms.  I  say,  equal 
terms,  because  although  I  know  what  1  am, 
and  the  exact  depth  of  the  gutter  I  have 
lifted  myself  out  of,  better  than  any  man  does, 
I  am  as  proud  as  you  are.  I  am  just  as  proud 
as  you  are.  Having  now  asserted  my  inde- 
pendence in  a  proper  manner,  I  may  come  to 
how  do  you  find  yourself,  and  I  hope  you're 
pretty  well." 

The  better,  Mr.  Harthouse  gave  him  to  un- 
derstand as  they  shook  hands,  for  the  salubrious 
air  of  Coketown.  Mr.  Bounderby  received 
the  answer  with  favor. 

"Perhaps  you  know,"  said  he,  "or  perhaps 
you  don't  know,  I  married  Tom  Gradgrind's 
daughter.  If  you  have  nothing  better  to  do 
than  to  walk  up  town  with  me,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  introduce  you  to  Tom  Gradgrind's 
daughter." 

"  Mr.  Bounderby,"  said  Jem,  "  you  antici- 
pate my  dearest  wishes." 

They  went  out  without  further  discourse  ; 
and  Mr.  Bounderby  piloted  the  new  ai-quain- 
tance  who  so  strongly  contrasted  with  him,  to 
the  private  red  brick  dwelling,  with  the  black 
outside  shutters,  the  green  inside  blinds,  and 
the  black  street  door  up  the  two  white  steps. 
In  the  drawing-room  of  which  mansion,  there 
presently  entered  to  them  the  most  remark- 
able girl  Mr.  James  Harthouse  had  ever  seen. 
She  was  so  constrained,  and  yet  so  careless  ;  so 
reserved,  and  yet  so  watchful ;  so  cold  and 
proud,  and  yet  so  sensitively  ashamed  of  her 
husband's  braggart  humility — from  which  she 
shrunk  as  if  every  example  of  it  were  a  cut  or 
a  blow;  that  it  was  quite  a  new  sensation  to 
observe  her.  In  face  she  was  no  less  remark- 
able than  in  manner.  Her  features  were  hand- 
some; but  their  natural  play  was  so  suppressed 
and  locked  up,  that  It  seemed  impossible  to 
guess  at  their  genuine  expression.  Utterly  in- 
ditt'erent,  perfectly  self  reliant,  never  at  a  loss, 
and  yet  never  at  her  ease,  with  her  figure  in 
company  with  them  there,  and  heruiind  appa- 
rently quite  alone — it  was  of  no  use  "goin^in" 
yet  awhile  to  comprehend  this  girl,  lor  she  baf- 
fled all  penetration. 

From  the  mistress  of  the  house,  the  visiter 
glanced  to  the  house  itself.  There  was  no 
mute  sign  of  a  woman  in  the  room.  No 
graceful  little  adornment,  no  fanciful  littie 
device,  however  trivial,  anywhere  expressed 
her  influence.  Cheerless  and  comfortless, 
boastfully  and  doggedly  rich,  there  the  room 
stared  at  its  present  occupants,  unsoftened  and 


128 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


unrelieved  by  the  least  trace  of  any  womanly 
occupation.  As  Mr.  Bounderby  stood  in  the 
midst  ol'his  household  gods,  so  those  unrelent- 
ing divinities  occupied  their  places  around  Mr. 
Baunderby,  and  they  were  worthy  of  one 
another  and  well  matched. 

'•This,  sir,"  said  Bounderby,  "is  my  wife, 
Mrs.  Bounderby:  Tom  Gradgrind's  eldest 
daughter.  Loo,  Mr.  James  Harthouse.  Mr. 
Harlhouse  has  joined  your  father's  muster- 
roll.  If  he  is  not  Tom  Gradgrind's  col- 
league before  long,  I  believe  we  shall  at  least 
hear  of  him  in  connexion  with  one  of  our 
neighboring  towns.  You  observe,  Mr,  Hart- 
house,  that  my  wife  is  my  junior.  I  don't 
know  what  she  saw  in  me  to  marry  me,  but 
she  saw  something  in  me,  I  suppose,  or  she 
wouldn't  have  married  me.  She  has  lots  of 
expensive  knowledge,  sir,  political  and  other- 
wise. If  you  want  to  cram  for  anything,  I 
should  be  troubled  to  recommend  you  to  a 
better  adviser  than  Loo  Bounderby." 

To  a  more  agreeable  adviser,  or  one  from 
whom  he  would  be  more  likely  to  learn,  Mr. 
Harthouse  could  never  be  recommended. 

'*  Come !"  said  his  host.  "  If  you're  in 
the  complimentary  line,  you'll  get  on  here, 
for  you'll  meet  with  no  competition.  I  have 
never  been  in  the  way  of  learning  compliments 
myself,  and  I  don't  profess  to  understand  the 
art  of  paying  'em.  In  fact,  I  despise  'em. 
But,  your  bringing-up  was  different  from  mine; 
mine  was  a  real  thing,  by  George!  You're  a 
gentleman,  and  I  don't  pretend  to  be  one.  I 
am  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown,  and  that's 
enough  for  me.  However,  though  /  am  not 
influenced  by  manners  and  station.  Loo  Bound- 
erby may  be.  She  hadn't  my  advantages — dis- 
advantages you  would  call  'em,  but  I  call  'em 
advantages — so  you'll  not  waste  your  power,  I 
dare  say." 

"Mr.  Bounderby,"  said  Jem,  turning  with 
a  smile  to  Louisa,  "is  a  noble  animal  in  a 
comparatively  natural  state,  quite  tree  from 
the  harness  in  which  a  conventional  hack  like 
myself  works." 

"You  respect  Mr.  Bounderby  very  much," 
she  ouietly  returned.  "It  is  natural  that  you 
should." 

He  was  disgracefully  thrown  out,  for  a 
gentleman  who  had  seen  so  much  of  the 
world,  and  thought — "Now,  how  am  I  to  take 
this  ?" 

"You  are  going  to  devote  yourself,  as  I 
gather  from  what  Mr.  Bounderby  lias  said, 
to  the  service  of  your  country.  You  have 
made  up  your  mind,"  said  Louisa,  still 
standing  before  him  where  she  had  first 
stopped — in  all  the  singular  contrariety  of  her 
self-possession,  and  her  being  obviously  so 
very  ill  at  ease — "  to  show  the  nation  the  way 
out  of  all  its  difficulties." 

"  Mrs.  Bounderby,"  he  returned  laughing, 
"  upon  my  honor,  no.  I  will  make  no  such 
pretence  to  yon.  I  have  seen  a  little,  here 
una  there,  up  and  down  ;  I  have  found  it  all  to 


be  very  worthless,  as  everybody  has,  and  as 
some  confess  they  have,  and  some  do  not ;  and 
I  am  going  in  for  your  respected  father's  opi- 
nions— really  because  I  have  no  choice  of  opi- 
nions, and  may  as  well  back  them  as  anything 
else." 

"  Have  you  none  of  your  own  ?"  asked 
Louisa. 

"  I  have  not  so  much  as  the  slightest  pre- 
dilection left.  I  assure  you  I  attach  not  the 
least  importance  to  any  opinions.  The  result 
of  the  varieties  of  boredom  I  have  under- 
gone, is  a  conviction  (unless  conviction  is  too 
industrious  a  word  for  the  lazy  sentiment  I 
entertain  on  the  subject),  that  any  set  of  ideas 
will  do  just  as  much  good  as  any  other  set,  and 
just  as  much  harm  as  any  other  set.  There's 
an  English  family  with  a  capital  Italian  motto. 
What  will  be,  will  be.  it's  the  only  truth 
going!" 

This  vicious  assumption  of  honesty  in  dis- 
honesty— a  vice  so  dangerous,  so  deadly,  and 
so  common — seemed,  he  observed,  a  little  to 
impress  her  in  his  favor.  He  followed  up  the 
advantage,  by  saying  in  his  pleasantest  man- 
ner :  a  manner  to  which  she  might  attach 
as  much  or  as  little  meaning  as  she  pleased: 
"  The  side  that  can  prove  anything  in  a 
line  of  units,  tens,  hundreds  and  thousands, 
Mrs.  Bounderby,  seems  to  me  to  afford  the 
most  fun,  and  to  give  a  man  the  best  chance. 
I  am  quite  as  much  attached  to  it  as  if  I  be- 
lieved it.  I  am  quite  ready  to  go  in  for  it,  to 
the  same  extent  as  if  I  believed  it.  And  what 
moi-e  could  I  possibly  do,  if  1  did  believe  it!" 

"You  are  a  singular  politician,"  said  Louisa. 

"Pardon  me;  I  have  not  even  that  merit. 
We  are  the  largest  party  in  the  state,  I  assure 
you,  Mrs.  Bounderby,  if  we  all  fell  out  of  our 
adopted  ranks  and  were  reviewed  together." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  who  had  been  in  danger  of 
bursting  in  silence,  interposed  here  with  a  pro- 
ject for  postponing  the  tamily  dinner  to  half- 
past  six,  and  taking  Mr.  James  Harthouse  in 
the  meantime  on  a  round  of  visits  to  the  voting 
and  interesting  notabilities  of  Coketown  and 
its  vicinity.  The  round  of  visits  was  made; 
and  Mr.  James  Harthouse,  with  a  discreet  use 
of  his  blue  coaching,  came  off'  triumphantly, 
though  with  a  considerable  accession  of  bore- 
dom. 

In  the  evening,  he  found  the  dinner-table 
laid  for  four,  but  they  sat  down  only  three. 
It  was  an  appropriate  occasion  for  Mr.  Boun- 
derby to  discuss  the  flavor  of  the  hap'orth 
of  stewed  eels  he  had  purchased  in  the  streets 
at  eight  years  old,  and  also  of  the  inferior 
water,  specially  used  for  laying  the  dust, 
with  which  he  had  washed  down  that  repast. 
He  likewise  entertained  his  guest,  over  the 
soup  and  fish,  with  the  calculation  that  he 
(Bounderby)  had  eaten  in  his  youth  at  least 
three  horses  under  the  guise  of  polonies  and 
saveloys.  These  recitals,  Jem,  in  a  languid 
manner,  received  with  "  charming !"  every 
now  and  then  ;  and  they  probably  would  have 
decided  him  to  go  in  lur  Jerusalem  again  to- 


HARD  TIMES. 


iiwjrrow  morning',  had  he  been  less  curious  re- 
ispectiug  Louisa. 

"  Is  there  nothing,"  he  thought,  glancing  at 
her  as  she  sat  at  the  hoad  of  the  table,  where 
her  youthful  figure,  small  and  slight,  but  very 
graceful,  looked  as  pretty  as  it  looked  mis- 
placed; "is  there  nothing  that  will  move  that 
face  ?" 

Yes  I  By  Jupiter,  there  was  something,  and 
here  it  was,  in  an  unexpected  shape  I  Tom 
appeared.  She  changed  as  the  door  opened, 
and  broke  into  a  beaming  smile. 

A  beautiful  smile.  iMr.  James  Harthonse 
might  not  have  thought  so  much  of  it,  but  that 
he  had  wondered  so  long  at  her  impassive 
face.  She  put  out  her  hand — a  pretty  Utile 
solt  hand ;  and  her  fingers  closed  upon  her 
brother's,  as  if  she  would  have  carried  them 
to  her  lips. 

"Ay,  ay?"  thought  the  visiter.  "This 
whelp  is  the  only  creature  she  cares  for. 
So,  so  1" 

The  whelp  was  presented,  and  took  his 
chair.  The  appellation  was  not  flattering,  but 
not  unmerited. 

"When  I  was  your  age,  young  Tom,"  said 
Bounderby,  "I  was  punctual,  or  I  get  no 
dinner !" 

"When  you  were  my  age,"  returned  Tom, 
**you  hadn't  a  wrong  balance  to  get  right,  and 
hadn't  to  dress  afterwards." 

''Never  mind  that  now,"  said  Bounderby. 

"Well,  then,"  grumbled  Tom.  "Don't  be- 
gin with  me." 

"Mrs.  Bounderby,"  said  Harthouse,  perfect- 
ly hearing  this  under-strain  as  it  went  ou; 
"your  brother's  face  is  quite  familiar  to  me. 
Can  I  have  seen  him  abroad  ?  Ur  at  some 
public  school,  perhaps  ?" 

"No,"  she  returned,  quite  interested,  "he 
has  never  been  abroad  yet,  and  was  educatt-d 
here,  at  home.  Tom,  love,  I  am  telling  Mr. 
Harthouse  that  he  never  saw  you  abroad." 

"No  such  luck,  sir,"  said  Tom. 

There  was  little  enough  in  him  to  brighten 
her  face,  for  he  was  a  sullen  young  iellow,  and 
ungracious  in  his  manner  even  to  her.  So 
much  the  greater  must  have  been  the  solitude 
of  her  heart,  and  her  need  of  some  one  on  whom 
to  bestow  it.  "So  much  the  more  is  this  whelp 
the  cnly  creature  she  has  ever  cared  for," 
thought  Mr.  James  Harthouse,  turning  it  over 
and  over.  "So  much  the  more.  So  much  the 
more."' 

Both  in  his  sister's  presence,  and  after  she 
had  left  the  room,  the  whelp  took  no  pains  to 
hide  his  contempt  for  Mr.  Bounderby,  when- 
ever he  could  indulge  it  without  the  observa- 
tion of  that  independent  man,  by  making  wry 
faces,  or  shutting  one  eye.  Without  respond- 
ing to  the.ic  telegraphic  communications,  Mr. 
Harthouse  encouraged  him  much  in  the  course 
of  the  evening,  and  showed  an  unusual  liking 
for  him.  At  last,  when  he  rose  to  return  to 
his  hotel,  and  was  a  little  doubiful  whether  he 
knew  the  wav  by  night,  the  whelp  immediately 
9 


proffered  his  services  as  guide,  and  turned  out 
with  him  to  escort  him  thither. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

It  was  very  remarkable  that  a  young  cren- 
tlemau  who  had  been  brought  up  under  one 
continuous  system  of  unnatural  restraint, 
should  be  a  hypocrite  ;  but  it  was  certainly  the 
case  with  Tom.  It  was  very  strange  that  a 
young  gentleman  who  had  never  been  left  to 
his  own  guidance  for  five  consecutive  minutes, 
should  be  incapai)le  at  last  of  governing  him- 
self; but  so  it  wtts  with  Tom.  It  was  ah.) 
gether  unaccountable  that  a  young  gentleniar 
whose  imagination  had  been  strangled  in  hi.' 
cradle,  should  be  still  inconvenienced  iiy  it:? 
ghost  in  the  form  of  grovelling  sensualities; 
but  such  a  monster,  beyond  all  duubt,  was 
Tom. 

"Do  you  smoke?"  asked  Mr.  James  Hart- 
house, when  they  came  to  the  hotel. 

"I  believe  you  I"  said  Tom. 

He  could  do  no  less  than  ask  Tom  up ; 
and  Tom  could  do  no  less  than  go  uj).  What 
with  a  cooling  drink  adapted  to  the  weather, 
but  not  so  weak  as  cool  ;  and  what  with  a 
rarer  tobacco  than  was  to  be  bought  in  those 
parts  ;  Tom  was  soon  in  a  highly  free  and  easy 
state  at  his  end  of  the  sofa,  and  more  than 
ever  disposed  to  admire  his  new  friend  at  the 
other  end. 

Tom  blew  his  smoke  aside,  after  he  had 
been  smoking  a  little  while,  and  took  an  ob- 
servation of  his  friend.  "He  don't  seem  to 
care  about  his  dress,"  thought  Tom,  "  and  yet 
how  capitally  he  does  it.  What  an  easy  i^well 
he  is  I" 

Mr.  James  Harthouse,  happening  to  catch 
Tom's  eye,  remarked  that  he  drank  nothing, 
and  filled  his  glass  with  his  own  negiigeut 
haml. 

"Thank'ee,"  said  Tom.  "Thank'ee.  Well, 
Mr.  Harthouse,  I  hope  you  have  ha  1  about 
a  dose  of  old  Boun<lerby  to-night."  Tom 
said  this  with  one  eye  shut  up  again,  and 
looking  over  his  glass  knowingly,  at  his  enter- 
tainer. 

"A  very  good  fellow  indeed  I"  returned 
Mr.  James  Harthouse. 

"You  think  so,  don't  you  ?"  said  Tom.  And 
shut  up  his  eye  again. 

Mr.  Jam^s  Harthouse  smiled ;  and  rising 
from  his  end  of  the  sofa,  and  lounging  with 
his  back  against  the  chimney-piece,  so  that 
he  stood  before  the  empty  fire-grate  as  he 
smoked,  in  front  of  Tom,  and  looking  down 
at  him,  observed : 

"  What  a  comical  brother  in-law  you  are  !" 

"  What  a  comical  brother-in-law  old  Boun- 
derby is,  I  think  you  mean,"  said  Tom. 

"  You  are  a  piece  of  caustic,  Tom,"  retorted 
Mr.  .lames  Harthouse. 

There  was  something  so  very  agreeable  ni 
being  so  intimate  with  such  a  waistcoat;  hi 
being  called  Tom,  by  such  a  voice;  in  be'iiL' 
ou  such   off-hand  terms  so  soon,  with  such  a 


130 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


pair  of  whiskers ;  that  Tom  was  uncommonly 
pleased  with  hiraseU'. 

"Oh!"'  1  don't  care  for  old  Bounderby," 
said  he,  "  if  you  mean  that.  I  have  always 
called  old  Bounderby  by  the  same  name, 
when  I  have  talked  about  him,  and  I  have 
always  thought  of  him  in  the  same  way.  I  am 
not  goiug  to  begin  to  be  polite  now,  about  old 
Bounderby.  It  would  be  rather  late  in  the 
day." 

"Don't  mind  me,"  returned  James  ;  "but 
take  care  when  his  wife  is  by,  you  know." 

"His  wife  ?■'  said  Tom.  "My  sister  Loo? 
0  yes ! "  And  he  laughed,  and  took  a  little 
more  of  the  cooling  drink. 

James  Uarthouse  continued  to  lounge  in  the 
same  place  and  attitude,  smoking  his  segar  in 
his  own  easy  way,  and  looking  pleasantly  at  the 
whelp,  as  it  he  knew  himself  to  be  a  kind  of 
agreeable  demon  who  had  only  to  hover  over 
him,  and  he  must  give  up  his  whole  soul  if  re- 
quired. It  certainly  did  seem  that  the  whplp 
yielded  to  this  influence.  He  looked  at  his 
companion  sneakingly,  he  looked  at  him  ad- 
miringly, he  looked  at  him  boldly,  and  put  up 
one  leg  on  the  sofa. 

"My  sister  Loo?"  said  Tom.  "She  never 
cared  for  old  Bounderby." 

"That's  the  past  tense,  Tom,"  returned  Mr. 
James  Harthouse,  striking  the  ash  from  his 
cigar  with  fiis  little  linger.  "We  are  in  the 
present  tense,  now." 

"Verb  neuter,  not  to  care.  Indicative 
mood,  present  tense.  First  person  singular,  I 
do  not  care;  second  person  singular,  thou  dost 
not  care;  third  person  singular,  she  does  not 
care,"  returned  Tom, 

"Good!  Very  quaint!"  said  his  friend. 
"Though  you  don't  mean  it." 

"But  I  do  mean  it,"  cried  Tom.  "Upon  my 
honor!  Why,  you  won't  tell  me,  Mr.  Hart 
house,  that  you  really  suppose  my  sister  Loo 
does  care  for  old  Bounderby." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  returned  the  other,  "what 
am  I  bound  to  suppose,  when  I  find  two 
married  people  living  in  harmony  and  happi- 
ness?" 

Tom  had  by  this  time  got  both  his  legs  on 
the  sofa.  If  his  second  leg  had  not  been  al- 
ready there  when  he  was  called  a  dear  fellow, 
he  would  have  put  it  up  at  that  great  stage  of 
the  conversation.  Feeling  it  necessary  to  do 
something  then,  he  stretched  himself  out  at 
greater  length,  and,  reclining  with  the  back  of 
his  head  on  the  end  of  the  sofa,  and  smoking 
with  an  infinite  assumption  of  negligence, 
turned  his  common  faje,  and  not  too  sober 
eyes,  towards  the  face  looking  down  upon  him 
fio  carelessly  yet  so  potently. 

"You  know  our  governor,  Mr.  Harthouse," 
said  Tom,  "and  therefore  you  needn't  be  sur- 
prised that  Loo  married  old  Bounderby.  She 
never  had  a  lover,  and  the  governor  proposed 
old  Bounderby,  and  she  took  him." 

"Very  dutiful  in  your  interesting  sister,"  said 
Mr.  James  Harthouse. 

"Yes,  but  she  wouldn't  have  been  as  dutiful. 


and  it  would  not  have  come  oflf  as  easily,"  re- 
turned the  whelp,  "if  it  hadn't  been  for  me." 

The  tempter  merely  lilted  his  eyebrows,  but 
the  whelp  was  obliged  to  go  on. 

"/  persuaded  her,"  he  said,  with  an  edifying 
air  of  superiority.  "I  was  stuck  into  old 
Bounderby 's  bank  (where  I  never  wanted  to 
be),  and  I  knew  I  should  get  into  scrapes 
there,  if  she  put  old  Bounderby's  pipe  out;  so 
I  told  her  my  wishes,  and  she  came  into  them. 
She  would  do  anything  for  me.  It  was  very 
game  of  her,  wasn't  it?" 

"It  was  charming,  Tom!" 

"Not  that  it  was  altogether  so  important  to 
her  as  it  was  to  me,"  cuntinued  Tom  coolly, 
"because  my  liberty  and  comfort,  and  perhaps 
my  getting  on,  depended  on  it;  and  she  had  no 
other  lover,  and  staying  at  home  was  like  slay- 
ing in  jail — especially  when  I  was  gone.  It 
wasn't  as  if  she  gave  up  another  lover  lor  old 
Bounderby;  but  still  it  was  a  good  thing  in 
her." 

"Perfectly  delightful.  And  she  gets  on  so 
placidly."' 

"Oh,"  returned  Tom,  with  contemptuous 
patronage,  "she's  a  regular  girl.  A  girl  can 
get  on  anywhere.  She  has  settled  down  to  the 
life,  and  she  don't  mind.  The  life  does  just  as 
well  tor  her,  as  another.  Besides,  though  Loo 
is  a  girl,  she's  not  a  common  sort  of  girl.  She 
can  shut  herself  up  within  herself,  and  think 
— as  I  iiave  often  known  her  sit  and  watch  the 
fire — for  an  hour  at  a  stretch."    J 

"Ay,  ay?  Has  resources  of  mv  own,"  said 
Harthouse,  smoking  quietly. 

"Not  so  much  of  that  as  you  may  suppose,'' 
returned  Tom;  "for  our  governor  had  her 
crammed  with  all  sorts  of  dry  bones  and  saw- 
dust.    It's  his  system." 

"Formed  his  daughter  on  his  own  model  ?'' 
suggested  Harthouse. 

"  His  daughter  ?  Ah  I  and  everybody  else. 
Why,  he  formed  Me  that  way,"  said  Tom. 

"Impossible  I  " 

"He  did  though,"  said  Tom,  shaking  his 
head.  "I  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Harthouse,  that 
when  I  first  left  home  and  went  to  old 
Bounderby's,  I  was  as  fiat  as  a  warming-pan, 
at-d  knew  no  more  about  life,  than  any  oyster 
does." 

"Come,  Tom  !  I  can  hardly  believe  that.  A 
joke's  a  joke." 

"Upon  my  soul!"  said  the  whelp.  "I  am 
serious;  I  am  indeed!"  He  smoked  with 
great  gravity  and  dignity  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  added,  in  a  highly  complacent  tone, 
"Oh!  I  have  picked  up  a  little,  since.  I  don": 
deny  that.  But  I  have  done  it  myself;  no 
thanks  to  the  governor." 

"And  your  intelligent  sister?"' 

"My  intelligent  sister  is  about  where  she 
was.  She  used  to  complain  to  me  that  she 
had  nothing  to  fall  back  upon,  that  girls  u-<ually 
fall  back  upon;  and  I  don't  see  how  she  is  lo 
have  got  over  that  since.  But  s7<e  don't  miiiil,  ' 
he  sagaciously  added,  puffing  at  his  ci-ur ;. _aiii. 
"Girls  can  always  get  on,  somehow.'' 


HARD  TIMES. 


131 


"Callin^r  at  the  Bank  yesterday  eveninor,for 
Mr.  Bounderby's  address,  I  found  an  ancient 
lady  there,  who  seems  to  entertain  great  admi- 
ration foryour  sister,'' observed  Mr.  James  Hart- 
house,  throwing  away  the  last  small  remnant 
of  the  cigar  he  had  now  smoked  out. 

"Mother  Sparsit?"  said  Tom.  "W'hatl  you 
have  seen  her  already,  have  you  ?" 

His  friend  nodded.  Tom  took  his  cigar 
out  of  his  mouth,  to  shut  up  his  eye  (which 
had  grown  rather  unmanageable)  with  the 
greater  expression,  and  to  tap  his  nose  several 
time  with  his  finger. 

"Mother  Sparsit's  feeling  for  Loo  is  more 
than  admiration,  I  should  think,"  said  Tom. 
"Say  atfection  and  devotion.  Mother  Sparsit 
never  set  her  cap  at  Bounderby  when  he  was 
a  bachelor.     Oh  no  1" 

These  were  the  last  words  spoken  by  the 
whelp,  before  a  giddy  drowsiness  came  upon 
him,  followed  by  complete  oblivion  He  was 
roused  from  the  latter  state  by  an  uneasy 
dream  of  being  stirred  up  with  a  boot,  and 
also  of  a  voice  saying:  "Come,  it's  late.  Be 
otf!"' 

"Well !"'  he  said,  scrambling  from  the  sofa. 
"I  must  take  my  leave  of  you  though.  I  say. 
Yours  is  very  good  tobacco.  But  it's  too 
mild." 

"Yes,  it's  too  mild,"  returned  his  enter- 
tainer. 

'•It's — it's  ridiculously  mild,"  said  Tom. 
"'A' here's  the  door?     Good  night!" 

He  had  another  odd  drean  of  being  taken 
by  a  waiter  through  a  mist,  which,  after 
giving  him  some  trouble  and  difficL.lty 
resolved  itself  into  the  main  street,  in 
which  he  stood  alone.  He  then  walked  home 
prt-tty  easily,  though  not  yet  free  from  an  im- 
pression of  the  presence  and  iiifliience  of  his 
rew  friend — as  if  he  were  lounging  somewhere 
in  the  air,  in  the  same  negligent  attitude,  re- 
garding bim  with  the  same  look. 

The  whelp  went  home,  and  went  to  bed. 
If  he  had  had  any  spnse  of  what  he  had  done 
that  night,  and  had  been  less  of  a  whelp  and 
more  of  a  brother,  he  might  have  turned 
short  on  the  road,  might  have  gone  down  to 
the  ill-smelling  river  that  was  dyed  black, 
might  have  gone  to  bed  in  it  fur  good  and  all, 
and  have  cuitained  his  head  for  ever  with  its 
til  thy  waters. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"Oh  my  friends,  the  down-trodden  opera- 
tives of  Coketowu  !  Oh  my  friends  and  felh  w- 
countrymen,  the  slaves  of  an  iron-handed  and 
a  gri  iding  despotism  I  Oh  my  friends  and  fel- 
low suti'erers,  and  fellow-workmen,  and  fellow- 
men  I  I  tt-11  you  that  the  hour  is  come,  when 
we  must  rally  round  one  another  as  One  united 
power,  and  crumble  into  dust  the  i"))pressors 
thai  loo  long  have  battened  upon  the  plunder 
of  our  families,  upon  the  sweat  of  our  brows, 
upon  tlie  labor  of  our  hands,  upon  the  strength 
ol   our  sinews,  upon  the  (jod-created  glorious 


rights  of  Humanity,  and  upon  the  holy  and 
eternal  privileges  of  Brotherhood !" 

"Good!"  "Hear,  hear,  hear  1"  "Hurrah!" 
and  other  cries,  arose  in  many  voices  from  va- 
rious parts  of  the  densely  crowded  and  suffoca- 
tingly close  Hall,  in  which  the  orator,  perched 
on  a  stage,  delivered  himself  of  this  and  what 
other  froth  and  fume  he  had  in  him.  He  had 
declaimed  himself  into  a  violent  heat,  and  was 
as  hoarse  as  he  was  hot.  By  diut  of  roarinc 
at  the  top  of  his  voice  under  a  flaring  gaslight 
clenching  his  fists,  knitting  his  brows,  setting 
his  teeth,  and  pounding  with  his  arras,  he  had 
taken  so  much  out  of  himself  by  this  time,  that 
he  was  brought  to  a  stop  and  called  for  a  glass 
of  water. 

As  he  stood  there,  trying  to  quench  his 
fiery  face  with  his  drink  of  water,  the  com- 
parison between  the  orator  and  the  crowd  of 
attentive  faces  turned  towards  him,  was  ex- 
tremely to  his  disadvantage.  Judging  him 
by  Nature's  evidence,  he  was  above  the  mass 
in  very  little  but  the  stage  on  which  he  stood. 
In  many  great  respects,  he  was  essentially  be- 
low them.  He  was  not  so  honest,  he  was  not 
so  manly,  he  was  not  so  good  humored ;  he 
substituted  cunning  for  their  simplicity,  and 
passion  for  their  safe  solid  sense.  An  ill- 
inade  high-shouldered  man,  with  lowering 
brows,  and  his  features  crushed  into  an 
habitually  sour  expression,  he  contrasted 
most  unfavorably,  even  in  his  mongrel 
dress,  with  the  great  body  of  his  hearers  in 
their  plain  working  clothes.  Strange  as  it 
always  is  to  consider  any  assembly  in  the 
act  of  submissively  resigning  itself  to  the 
dreariness  of  some  complacent  person,  lord  or 
commoner,  whom  three-fnurths  of  it  could,  by 
no  human  means,  raise  out  of  the  slough  of 
inanity  to  th  ir  own  intellectual  level,  it  was 
particularly  strange,  and  it  was  even  particu- 
larly atiVcting,  to  see  this  crowd  of  earnest 
faces,  whose  honesty  in  the  main  no  compe- 
tent observer  free  from  bias  could  doubt,  so 
agitated  by  such  a  leader. 

Good  !  Hear  hear !  Hurrah  !  1  he  eagerness 
both  of  atiention  and  intention,  exbibitid  in  all 
the  countenances,  made  them  a  most  impres- 
sive sight.  There  was  no  carelessness,  no  Ian 
guor,  no  idle  curiosity  ;  none  of  the  many 
shades  of  indifference  to  be  seen  in  all  other 
assemblies,  visible  for  one  moment  there.  That 
every  man  felt  his  condition  to  be,  somehow  or 
other,  worse  than  it  might  be;  that  every  man 
ci'nsidereil  it  incumbent  on  him  to  join  the  rest, 
towards  the  making  of  it  better;  that  every  niau 
feit  his  only  hope  to  be  in  his  allying  himself  to 
the  comrades  by  whom  he  was  surrounded; 
and  that  in  this  belief,  right  or  wrong  (un- 
happily wrong  then),  the  whole  of  that  crowd 
were  gravely,  deeply,  faithfully  in  earnest  ; 
must  have  been  as  [ilain  to  any  one  who 
chose  10  see  what  was  there,  as  the  bare 
beams  of  the  roof,  and  the  whitened  brick 
walls.  Nor  could  any  such  sjtectator  fail  to 
know  in  his  own  breast,  that  these  men,  through 
their  very   delusions,  showed  gitat  qualities, 


132 


DICKENS'  NEW   STORIES. 


susceptible  of  beinpf  turned  to  the  happiest 
and  best  account ;  and  that  to  pretend  (on 
the  strength  of  sweeping  axioms,  howsoever 
cut  and  dried)  that  they  went  astray  wholly 
without  cause,  and  of  their  own  irrational 
wills,  was  to  pretend  that  there  could  be  smoke 
without  fire,  death  without  birth,  harvest  with- 
out seed,  anything  or  everything  produced  from 
nothing. 

The  orator  having  refreshed  hi.nself,  wiped 
his  corrugated  forehead  from  left  to  right 
several  times  with  his  handkerchief  folded  into 
a  pad,  and  concentrated  all  his  revived  forces 
in  a  sneer  of  great  disdain  and  bitterness. 

"  But,  oh  my  friends  and  brothers  I  Oh 
meu  and  Englishmen,  the  down-trodden 
operatives  of  Coketown  !  What  shall  we 
say  of  that  man — that  working  man,  that 
I  should  find  it  necessary  so  to  libel  the 
glorious  name — who,  being  practically  and 
well  acquainted  with  the  grievances  and  wrongs 
of  you,  the  injured  pith  and  marrow  of  this  land, 
and  having  heard  you,  with  a  noble  and  majes- 
tic unanimity  that  will  make  Tyrants  tremble, 
resolve  for  to  subscril)e  to  the  funds  of  the 
United  Aggregate  Tribunal,  and  to  abide  by 
the  injunctions  issued  by  that  body  f  r  your 
benefit,  whatever  they  may  be — what,  I  ask 
you,  will  you  say  of  that  working  man,  since 
such  I  must  acknowledge  him  to  be,  who,  at 
such  a  time,  deserts  his  post,  and  sells  his 
flag  ;  who,  at  such  a  time,  turns  a  traitor  and 
a  craven  and  a  recreant;  who,  at  such  a  time, 
is  not  ashamed  to  make  to  you  the  dastardly 
Hud  humiliating  avowal  that  he  will  hold  him- 
self aloof,  and  will  not  be  one  of  those  asso- 
ciated in  the  gallant  stand  for  Freedom  and 
for  Right  ?" 

The  assembly  was  divided  at  this  point. — 
There  were  some  groans  and  hisses,  but  the 
general  sense  of  h(juor  was  much  too  strong 
for  the  condemnation  of  a  man  unheard.  "Be 
sure  you're  right,  Slackbridge!"  "Put  him 
up  1"  "Let's  hear  him  !"  Such  things  were 
said  on  many  sides.  Finally,  one  strong  vuice 
called  out,  "Is  the  man  heer  ?  If  the  man's 
heer,  Slackbridge,  let's  hear  the  man  himseln, 
'stead  o'  yo."  Which  was  received  with  a  round 
of  applause. 

Slackbridge,  the  orator,  looked  about  him 
with  a  withering  smile ;  and,  holding  out  his 
right  hand  at  arm's  length  (as  the  manner  of 
all  Slackbridges  is),  to  still  the  thundering  sea, 
waited  until  there  was  a  profound  silence. 

"Oh  my  friends  and  fellow  men,"  said  Slack- 
bridge  then,  shaking  his  head  with  violent 
scorn,  "I  do  not  wonder  that  you,  the  pros- 
trate sous  of  labor,  are  incredulous  of  the  ex- 
istence of  such  a  man.  But  he  who  sold  his 
birth-right  for  a  mess  ot  poiage  existed,  and 
Judas  Is  ariot  existed,  and  Castlerea^h  ex- 
isted, and  this  man  exists !" 

Here,  a  brief  press  and  confusion  near  the 
stage,  ended  in  the  man  himself  standing  at 
the  orator's  side  before  the  concourse.  He 
was  pale  and  a  little  moved  in  the  face — his 
lips  especially  showed  it ;  but  he  stood  quiet, 


with  his  left  hand  at  his  chin,  waiting  to  b« 
heard.  There  was  a  chairman  to  regulate  the 
proceedings,  and  this  functionary  now  took 
the  case  into  his  own  hands. 

"  My  friends,"  said  he,  "by  virtue  o'my  of- 
fice as  your  president,  I  askes  o'  our  friend 
Slackbridge,  who  may  be  a  little  over  better 
in  this  business,  to  take  his  seat,  whiles  this 
man  Stephen  Blackpool  is  heern.  You  all 
know  this  man  Stephen  Blackpool.  You  know 
him  awlung  o'  his  misfort'ns,  and  his  good 
name." 

With  that  the  chairman  shook  him  frankly 
by  the  hand,  and  sat  down  again.  Slack- 
bridge  likewise  sat  down,  wiping  his  hot  fore- 
head— always  from  left  to  right,  and  never  the 
reverse  way. 

"  My  friends,"  Stephen  began,  in  the  midst 
of  a  dead  calm ;  "I  ha'  herd  what's  been  spok'n 
o'  me,  and  'tis  lickly  that  I  shan't  mend  it. 
But  I'd  liefer  you  'd  hearn  the  truth  concernia 
myseln,  fro  my  lips  than  fro  onny  other  man's, 
though  I  never  cud'n  speak  afore  so  monny, 
wi'out  bein  moydert  and  muddled." 

Slackbridge  shook  his  head  as  if  he  would 
shake  it  off,  in  his  bitterness. 

"I  'm  th'  one  single  Hand  in  Bounderby's 
mill,  o'  a'  the  men  theer,  as  don't  caoom  in  wi' 
th'  proposed  reg'iations.  I  canna'  coom  in  wi' 
'em.  My  friends,  I  doubt  their  doin'  yo  onny 
good.     Licker  they'll  do  yo  hurt." 

Slackbridge  laughed,  folded  his  arms,  and 
frowned  sarcastically. 

"  But  't  ant  sommuch  for  that  as  I  stands 
out.  If  that  were  aw,  I'd  coom  in  wi'  th'  rest 
But  I  ha'  my  reasons — mine,  yo  see — fur 
being  hindered ;  not  on'y  now,  but  awlus — 
awlus — life  long  I" 

Slackbridge  jumped  up  and  stood  beside 
him,  gnashing  and  tearing.  "Oh  my  friends, 
what  but  this  did  I  tell  you?  Oh  my  fellow- 
countrymen,  what  warning  but  this  did  I  give 
you?  And  how  shows  this  recreant  conduct 
in  a  man  on  whom  unequal  laws  are  known 
to  have  fallen  heavy?  Oh  you  Englishmen, 
I  ask  you  how  does  this  subornation  show  in 
one  of  yourselves,  who  is  thus  consenting  to 
his  own  undoing  and  to  yours,  and  to  your 
children's  and  your  children's  children's  ?'' 

There  was  some  applause,  and  some  cry- 
ing of  Shame  upon  the  man;  but  the  great* r 
part  of  the  audience  were  quiet.  They  looked  at 
Stephen's  worn  face,  rendered  more  pathetic 
by  the  homely  emotions  it  evinced;  and,  in  tlie 
kindness  cf  their  nature,  they  were  more  sorry 
than  indignant. 

"  'Tis  this  Delegate's  trade  for  t'  speak," 
said  Stephen,  "an  he's  paid  for't,  an  he 
knows  his  work.  Let  him  keep  to't.  Let  him 
give  no  heed  to  what  I  ha  had'n  to  bear.  That's 
not  for  him.     That's  not  for  nobbody  but  me." 

There  was  a  propriety,  not  to  say  a  dignity 
in  these  words,  that  made  the  hearers  yet 
more  quiet  and  attentive.  The  same  strong 
voice  called  out,  "Slackbridge,  let  the  man  be 
heern,  and  howd  thee  tongue!"  Then  tue 
place  was  wonderfully  still. 


HARD  TIMES. 


133 


"My  brothers, "  said  Stephen,  whose  low 
Toice  was  distinctly  heard,  '"and  my  fellow- 
workmen — for  that  yo  are  to  me,  though  not, 
as  I  knows  on,  to  this  delegate  heer — 1  ha  but 
a  word  to  sen,  and  I  could  sen  nommore  if  I 
was  to  speak  till  Strike  o"  day.  I  know  weel 
aw  what's  afore  me.  I  know  weel  that  yo  are 
aw  resolved  to  ha  nommore  ado  wi'  a  man  who 
i<  not  wi'  yo  in  this  matther.  I  know  weel 
that  if  I  was  a  lying  parisht  i'  th'  road,  yo'd 
leel  it  rij^ht  to  pass  me  by  as  a  forrenner  and 
stranger.  What  I  ha  getn,  I  mun  mak  th' 
bejt  on." 

"Stephen  Blackpool,"  said  the  chairman, 
rising,  '"think  on't  again.  Think  ou't  once 
a^iea,  lad,  atbre  thour't  shunned  by  aw  owd 
friends." 

There  was  an  universal  murmur  to  the 
same  elfect,  though  no  man  articulated  a 
ward.  Every  eye  was  fixed  on  Stephen's  face. 
To  repent  of  his  determination,  would  be  to 
take  a  load  from  all  their  minds.  He  looked 
aru  ind  him,  and  knew  that  it  was  so.  J^'ot  a 
grain  of  anger  with  them  was  in  his  heart;  he 
knew  them,  lar  below  their  surface  weaknesses 
and  luisconceptious,  as  no  one  but  their  fellow 
laborer  could. 

'  1  ha  thowt  on't,  above  a  bit,  sir.  I  sim- 
ply canua  coom  in.  I  mun  go  th'  way  as 
[■i)s  afore  me.  I  mun  tak  my  leave  o'  aw 
heer." 

He  made  a  sort  of  reverence  to  them  by 
htjlJiiig  up  his  arms,  and  stood  for  the  mo- 
meui  in  that  attitude;  not  speaking  until  they 
siu«vly  dropped  at  his  sides. 

"Monny's  the  pleasant  word  as  soom  heer 
has  spok'n  wi'  me;  monny'sthe  iace  1  bee  hter, 
as  I  iirdt  seen  when  I  were  yoong  and  lighter 
lieaii'u  than  now.  i  ha  never  had  no  fratch 
aiurt',  sin  ever  1  were  born,  wi'  any  o'  iny  like; 
Lionnows  1  ha'  none  now  that's  o'  my  makiu'. 
^  o'li  ca'  me  traitor  and  that — yo,  1  mean  t' 
say,"  addiessin^  Slackbridge,  '"but  'lis  easier 
to  ca'  than  mak'  out.     So  let  be." 

He  had  moved  away  a  pace  or  two  to  '^ome 
diMMi  from  the  platform,  when  he  remembered 
soiueiliiiig  he  had  not  said,  and  returned  again. 

"Haply,"  he  said,  turning  his  furrowed 
face  slowly  about,  tliat  he  might  as  it  were 
iudividuaUy  address  the  whole  audience,  those 
both  near  and  distant;  '"haplv,  when  this  ques- 
tiju  has  been  tak'n  up  and  discoosed,  there'll 
I'e  a  tiireal  to  turn  out  if  I'm  let  to  work 
among  )o.  I  hope  I  shall  die  ere  ever  such  a 
tune  coums,  and  I  shall  wjrk  solitary  amo"g 
vo  unless  it  c'^oms — truly,  I  mun  do  t,  my 
friends;  not  to  brave  yo,  but  to  live.  I  ha 
nobbui  work  to  live  by;  and  wheerever  can  1 
go,  1  who  ha  worked  sin  1  were  no  heighth  at 
aw,  in  Coketowu  heer?  I  mak'  no  complaints 
o'  beiu  turned  to  the  wa',  o'  being  outcasien 
and  overlofkeu  fro  this  time  forrard,  but  1 
hope  1  shall  be  let  to  work.  If  there  is  any 
right  for  me  at  aw,  my  friends,  1  think  'tis 
that.'' 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  Not  a  sound  was 
audible  iu  the   building,  but  the  slight  rustle 


of  men  moving  a  little  apart,  all  along  the 
centre  of  the  room,  to  open  a  means  of  passing 
out,  to  the  man  with  whom  they  had  all  bound 
themselves  to  renounce  companionship.  Look- 
ing at  no  one,  and  going  hij  way  with  a  lowly 
steadiness  upon  him  that  asserted  nothing  and 
sought  nothing.  Old  Stephen,  with  all  his 
troubles  on  his  head,  left  tiie  scene. 

Then  Slackbridge,  who  had  kept  his 
oratorical  arm  extended  during  the  going 
out,  as  if  he  were  repressing  with  infinite 
solicitude  and  by  a  wonderful  moral  power 
the  vehement  passions  of  the  multitude, 
applied  himself  to  raising  their  spirits.  Had 
not  the  Koman  Brutus, oh  my  British  country- 
men, condemned  his  sou  to  death;  and  had  not 
the  Spartan  mothers,  oh  my  soon  to  be  victo- 
rious friends,  driven  their  living  children  on 
the  points  ot  their  enemies'  swords?  Then 
was  it  not  the  sacred  duty  of  the  men  of  Coke- 
town,  with  forefathers  before  them,  an  admir- 
ing world  in  company  with  them,  and  a  \)os- 
tenty  to  come  after  them,  to  hurl  out  traitors 
from  the  tents  they  had  pitched  in  a  sacrtd 
and  a  Godlike  cause?  The  winds  of  Heaven 
anwered  Yes;  and  bore  Yes,  east,  west,  north 
and  south.  And  consequently  three  cheers  tor 
the  United  Aggregate  Tribunal ! 

Slackbridge  acted  as  fugleman,  and  gave 
the  time.  The  multitude  of  doubtful  faces 
(a  little  conscience  stricken)  brightened  at  the 
sound,  and  took  it  up.  Private  feeling  must 
yield  to  the  common  cause.  Hurrah !  The 
roof  yet  vibrated  with  the  cheering  when  the 
assembly  dispersed. 

Thus  easily  did  Stephen  Blackpool  fad  into 
the  loneliest  of  lives,  the  life  of  soliiucie 
among  a  familiar  crowd.  The  stranger  in 
the  land  who  looks  into  ten  thousand  faces 
for  some  answering  look  and  never  finds  it,  is 
in  cheering  society  as  compared  with  hi  in 
who  passes  ten  averted  faces  daily,  that  were 
once  the  countenances  of  friends.  Such  ex- 
perience was  to  be  Stephen's  now,  in  eveiy 
waking  moment  of  his  life ;  at  his  work,  on 
his  way  to  it  and  from  it,  at  his  door,  at  his 
window,  everywhere.  By  general  consent, 
they  even  avoided  that  side  of  the  street  on 
which  he  habitually  walked  ;  and  left  it,  of  all 
the  working  men,  to  him  only. 

He  had  been  for  many  years,  a  quiet,  silent 
man,  associating  but  little  with  other  men, 
and  used  to  companionship  with  his  own 
thoughts.  He  had  never  known  before,  the 
strength  of  the  want  in  his  heart  for  the  fre- 
quent recognition  of  a  nod,  a  look,  a  word  : 
or  the  im:neuse  amount  of  relief  that  had 
bei»u  pourea  into  it  by  drops,  through  such 
small  means.  It  was  even  harder  than  he 
could  have  believed  posside,  to  separate  in 
his  own  conscience  his  abandonment  by  all 
his  fellows,  from  a  baseless  sense  of  shame  and 
disgrace. 

The  first  four  days  of  his  endurance  were 
days  so  long  and  heavy,  that  he  began  to  be 
appalled  by  the  prospect  before  him.  Not 
only  did  he  see  no  Kachael  all  the  time,  but 


134 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


He  avoided  every  chance  of  seeing  her;  for, 
although  he  knew  that  the  prohibition  did 
not  yet  formally  extend  to  the  women  working 
in  the  factories,  ho  found  that  some  of  them 
with  whom  he  was  acquainted  were  changed  to 
him,  and  he  feared  to  try  others,  and  dreaded 
thatllachael  might  be  oven  singled  out  from  the 
rest  if  she  were  seen  in  his  company.  So,  he 
had  been  quite  alone  during  the  four  days,  and 
had  spoken  to  no  one,  when,  as  he  was  leaving 
his  work  at  night,  a  young  man  of  a  very  light 
complexion  atcosted  him  in  the  street. 

"Your  name's  Blackpool,  ain't  it?"  said  the 
young  man. 

Stephen  colored  to  find  himself  with  his  hat 
in  his  hand,  in  his  gratitude  for  being  spoken 
to,  or  in  the  suddenness  of  it,  or  both.  He 
made  a  feint  of  adjusting  the  lining,  and  said, 
"  Yes." 

"  You  are  the  Hand  they  have  sent  to  Co- 
ventry, I  mean?"  said  Bitzer,  the  very  light 
young  man  in  question. 

Stephen  answered  "  Yes,"  again. 

"  I  supposed  so,  from  their  all  appearing  to 
keep  away  from  you.  Mr.  Bounderby  wants 
to  speak  to  you.  You  know  his  house,  don't 
you  ?" 

Stephen  said  *'  Yes,"  again. 

"  Then  go  straight  up  there,  will  you  ?  " 
said  Bitzer.  "You're  expected,  and  have 
only  to  tell  the  servant  it's  you.  I  belong  to 
the  Bank  ;  so,  if  you  go  straight  up  without 
me  (I  was  sent  to  fetch  you),  you'll  save  me  a 
walk." 

Stephen,  whose  way  had  been  in  the  con- 
trary direction,  turned  about,  and  betook 
himself  as  in  duty  iDound,  to  the  red  brick 
castle  of  the  giant  Bounderby. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

"Well  Stephen,"  said  Bounderby,  in  his 
windy  manner,  "  what's  this  I  hear  ?  What 
have  these  pests  of  the  earth  been  doing  to 
you  ?    Come  in,  and  speak  up." 

It  was  into  the  drawing-room  that  he  was 
thus  bidden.  A  tea-table  was  set  out ;  and 
Mr.  Bounderby's  young  wife,  and  her  brother, 
and  a  great  gentleman  from  London,  were 
present.  To  whom  Stephen  made  his  obeisance, 
closing  the  door  and  standing  near  it,  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand. 

"  This  is  the  man  I  was  telling  you  about, 
Harthouse,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby.  The  gen- 
tleman he  addressed,  who  was  talking  to  Mrs. 
Bounderby  on  the  sofa,  got  up,  saying  in  an 
indolent  way,  "  Oh  really  ?"  and  dawdled  to 
the  hearthrug  where  Mr.  Bounderby  stood. 

"  Now,"  said  Bounderby,  "  speak  up  !" 

Aftei  the  four  days  he  had  passed,  this 
address  fell  rudely  and  discordantly  on 
Stephen's  ear.  Besides  being  a  rough  hand- 
ling of  his  wounded  mind,  it  seemed  to 
assume  that  he  really  was  the  self-interested 
deserter  he  had  been  called. 

"What  were  it,  sir,"  said  Stephen,  "as  yo 
were  pleased  to  want  wi'  me?'' 


"Why,  I  have  told  you,"  returned  Bounder- 
by. "Speak  up  like  a  man,  since  you  are  a 
man,  and  tell  us  about  yourself  and  this  Com- 
bination." 

"Wi'  yor  pardon,  sir,"  said  Stephen  Black- 
pool, "I  ha'  nowt  to  sen  about  it." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  who  was  always  more  or 
less  like  a  Wind,  finding  something  in  his  way 
here,  began  to  blow  at  it  directly. 

"Now,  look  here,  Harthouse,"  said  he, 
"here's  a  specimeti  of  'em.  When  this  man 
was  here  once  before,  I  warned  this  man  against 
the  mischievous  strangers  who  are  always 
about — and  who  ought  to  be  hanged  wherever 
they  are  found — and  I  told  this  man  thai  he 
was  going  in  the  wong  direction.  Now, 
would  you  believe  it,  that  although  they  have 
put  this  mark  upon  him,  he  is  such  a  slave  to 
them  still,  that  he's  afraid  to  open  his  lips 
about  them?" 

"I  sed  as  I  had  nowt  to  sen,  sir ;  not  as  I 
was  fearfo'  o'  openin'  my  lips." 

"You  said.  Ah  1  I  know  what  you  said; 
more  than  that,  I  know  what  you  mean,  you 
see.  Not  always  the  same  thing,  by  the 
Lord  Harry!  Quite  different  things.  You 
had  better  tell  us  at  once,  that  that  fellow 
Slackbridge  is  not  in  the  town,  stirring  up  the 
people  to  mutiny;  and  that  he  is  not  a  regular 
qualified  leader  of  the  people;  that  is,  a  most 
confounded  scoundrel.  You  had  better  tell  us 
so  at  once;  you  can't  deceive  me.  Y'^ou  want 
to  tell  us  so.     Why  don't  you?" 

"I'm  as  sooary  as  yo,  sir,  when  the  people's 
leaders  is  bad,"  said  Stephen,  shaking  his 
head.  "They  taks  such  as  off'ers.  Haply  'tis 
na'  the  snia'est  o'  their  misfortuns  when  they 
can  get  nu  better." 

The  wind  began  to  be  boisterous. 

"Now,  you'll  think  this  pretty  well,  Hart- 
house," said  Mr.  Bounderby.  "You'll  think 
this  tolerably  strong.  Y^ou'll  say,  upon  my  suul 
this  is  a  tidy  specimen  of  what  my  friends 
have  to  deal  with;  but  this  is  nothing,  sir! 
You  shall  hear  me  ask  this  man  a  question. 
Pray,  Mr.  Blackpool" — wind  sprin>:ing  up 
very  fast — "may  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking 
you  how  it  happens  that  you  refused  to  be  iu 
this  Combination?" 

"How  't  happens?" 

"Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Bounderby,  with  his  thumbs 
in  the  arms  of  his  coat,  and  jerking  his  head 
and  shutting  his  eyes  in  confidence  with  the 
opposite  wall:  "how  it  happens." 

"I'd  leefer  not  coom  to't,  sir;  but  sin  you 
put  th'  question — an  not  want'n  t'  be  ill- 
manner'n — I'll  answer.  I  ha  passed  a  pro- 
mess." 

"Not  to  me,  you  know,"  said  Bounderby. 
(Gusty  weather  with  deceitful  calms.  One 
now  prevailing.) 

"0  no,  sir.     Not  to  yo." 

"As  for  me,  any  consideration  for  me  has 
had  just  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it,"  said 
Bounderbv,  still  in  confidence  with  the  wall. 
"If  only  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown  had 


HARD  TIMES. 


135 


been  in  question,  you  would  have  joined  and 
made  no  bones  about  it?" 

"Why  yes,  sir.  'Tis  true." 
'  "Though  he  knows,"  said  Mr.  Bouuderby, 
now  blowing  a  gale,  "that  these  are  a  set  of 
rascals  and  rebels  whom  transportation  is  too 
good  fori  Now,  Mr.  Hartliou.se,  you  have 
Wn  knocking  about  in  the  world  some  time. 
Did  you  ever  meet  with  anything  like  that 
man  out  of  this  blessed  country  ?"  And  Mr. 
Bounderby  pointed  him  out  for  inspection, 
with  an  angry  finger. 

"  Nay,  ma'am,"  said  Stephen  Blackpool, 
staunchly  protesting  against  the  words  that 
had  been  used,  and  instinctively  addressing 
himself  to  Louisa,  after  glancing  at  her  face. 
"Not  rebels,  nor  yet  rascals.  Nowt  o'  th' 
kind,  ma'am,  nowt  o'  th'  kind.  They've  not 
doon  me  a  kindness,  ma'am,  as  I  know  and 
feeh  But  there's  not  a  dozen  men  amoong 
'em,  ma'am — a  dozen!  Not  six — but  what  be- 
lieves as  he  has  doon  his  duty  by  the  rest  and 
by  himseln,  God  forlnd  as  I,  that  ha  known 
an  had'n  experience  o'  these  men  aw  my  life — 
I,  that  ha'  ett'n  an  droonken  wi'  em,  an  seet'n 
wi"  em,  an  toil'n  wi'  em,  and  lov'n  'em,  should 
fail  fur  to  stan  by  'em  wi'  the  truth,  let  'em  ha 
d  jon  to  me  what  they  may !" 

He  spoke  with  the  rugged  earnestness  of 
his  place  and  character — deepened,  perhaps, 
by  a  proud  consciousness  that  he  was  faithful 
to  his  class  under  all  their  mistrust;  but  he 
fully  remember  3d  where  he  was,  and  did  not 
even  raise  his  voice. 

"No,  ma'am,  no.  They're  true  to  one  an- 
other, faithfo'  to  one  another,  fectiouate  to  one 
another,  e'en  to  death.  Be  poor  among  'em, 
be  sick  among  'em,  grieve  amoong  'em  for 
onny  o'  th'  monny  causes  that  carries  grief 
to  the  poor  man's  dour,  an  they'll  be  tender 
wi'  yo,  gentle  wi'  yo,  comfortable  wi'  yo,  Chri- 
sen  wi'  yo.  Be  sure  o'  that,  ma'am.  They'd 
be  riven  to  bits,  ere  ever  they'd  be  different." 

"In  short,"  said  Mr.  Buundeiby,  "it's  be- 
cause tliey  are  so  full  of  vrtues  that  they  have 
turned  you  adrift.  Go  thruugh  with  ii  while 
you  are  about  it.     Out  with  it." 

"How  'tis,   ma'am,"   resumed  Stephen,   ap- 

E earing  still  to  find  his  natural  refuge  in 
lOuisa's  face,  "that  what  is  best  in  us  fok, 
seems  to  turns  ua  most  to  trouble  an  misfort'n, 
an  mistake,  I  dunno.  But  "tis  so.  I  know 
'tis,  as  I  know  the  heavens  is  over  me  ahint 
the  smoke.  We  re  patient  too,  an  wants  in 
general  to  do  right.  An'  I  canna  think  the 
fawt  is  aw  wi'  us." 

"Now,  my  friend,"  said  Mr,  Bounderby, 
whom  he  could  not  have  exasperated  more, 
quite  unconscious  of  it  though  he  was,  than  by 
seeming  to  appeal  to  any  one  else,  "if  you  will 
favor  me  with  your  attention  for  half  a  minute, 
I  should  like  to  have  a  word  or  two  with  you. 
You  said  just  now,  that  you  had  nothingto  tell 
us  about  this  business.  You  are  quite  sure  of 
that,  before  we  go  any  further?" 
"Sir,  I  am  sure  ou't." 
"Here's  a  gentleman  from  London  present," 


Mr.  Boundarby  made  a  back-handed  point  at 
Mr.  James  Harthouse  with  his  thumb,  "a  Par- 
liament gentleman.  I  should  like  him  to  hear 
a  short  bit  of  dialogue  between  you  and  me, 
instead  of  taking  the  substance  of  it — for  I 
know  precious  well,  beforehand,  what  it  will 
be;  nobody  knows  better  than  I  do,  take  notice! 
— instead  of  receiving  it  on  trust,  from  my 
mouth." 

Stephen  bent  his  head  to  the  gentleman 
from  London,  and  showed  a  rather  more 
troubled  mind  than  usual.  He  turned  his 
eyes  involuntarily  to  his  former  refuge,  but 
at  a  look  from  that  quarter  (expressive  though 
instantaneous)  he  settled  them  on  Mr.  Bouu- 
derby's  face. 

"i^ow,  what  do  you  complain  of?"  spake 
Mr.  Bounderby. 

"I  ha'  not  coom  heer,  sir,"  Stephen  re- 
minded him,  "to  complain.  I  coom  for  that 
I  were  sent  for." 

"What,"  repeated  Mr.  Bounderby,  folding 
his  arms,  "do  you  people,  in  a  general  way, 
complain  of?" 

Stephen  looked  at  him  with  some  little  irre- 
solution for  a  moment,  and  then  seemed  to 
make  up  his  mind. 

"  Sir,  I  were  never  good  at  showin  o't, 
though  I  ha  had'n  my  share  in  feeling  o't. 
'Deed  we  are  in  a  muddle,  sir.  Look  round 
town — so  rich  as  'tis — and  see  th'  numbers  o' 
people  as  has  been  broughten  into  beiu  heer, 
fur  to  weave,  an  to  card,  and  to  piece  out  a 
livin,  aw  the  same  one  way,  somehows, 
twixt  their  cradies  an  their  graves.  Look 
how  we  live,  an  wheer  we  live,  an  in  what 
numbers,  an  by  what  chances,  and  wi'  what 
sameness;  and  look  how  the  mills  is  awlus  a 
goin,  an  how  they  never  works  us  no  nigher  to 
onny  dis'ant  object — ceptiu  awlus,  Death. — 
Look  how  you  considers  of  us,  an  writes  of  u-, 
an  talks  of  us,  and  goes  up  wi'  yor  dejjutations 
to  Secretaries  o'  State  'bout  us,  and  huw  yoare 
awlus  right,  an  how  we  are  awlus  wrong,  and 
never  had'n  no  reason  in  us  sin  ever  we  were 
born.  Look  how  this  ha  gruwen  and  groweri, 
sir,  bigger  an  bigger,  broader  an  broader,  harder 
an  harder,  fro  year  to  year,  fro  generation  unto 
generation.  Who  can  look  on'l  sir,  and  fairly 
tell  a  man  'tis  not  a  muddle?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Bounderbj-.  "Now 
perhaps  you'll  let  the  gentleman  know,  how 
you  would  set  this  muddle  (as  you're  so  fjnd 
of  calling  it)  to  rights." 

"I  doimo,   sir.     I  canna   be  expecten  to't, 
'Tis  not  me  as  should  be  looken   to  for  that, 
sir.     'Tis  them  as  is  put  ower  me,  an  ower  aw 
the  rest  of  us.     What  do  they  tak  upon  them-     t 
sen,  sir,  if  not  to  do't?"  I 

"I'll  tell  you  something  towards  it,  at  any  " 
rate,"  returned  Mr.  Bounderby.  "We  will 
make  an  example  of  half  a  dozen  Slack- 
bridges.  We'll  indict  the  blackguards  for 
felony,  and  get  'em  shipped  off  to  penal  set- 
tlements." 

Stephen  gravely  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  tell  me  we  won't,  man,"  said  Mr.  Boun- 


136 


/ 


DICKENS'  NEW   STORIES. 


derby,  by  this  time  blowing  a  hurricane,  "be- 
cause we  will,  I  tell  you  !" 

"Sir,"  returned  Stephen,  with  the  quiet  con- 
fidence of  absolute  certainty,  "if  yo  was  t'  tak 
a  hundred  Slackbridges — aw  as  there  is, 
an  aw  the  number  ten  times  towd — an 
was  t'  sew  'em  up  in  separate  sacks,  an 
sink  'em  in  the  deepest  ocean  as  were  made 
ere  ever  dry  land  coom  to  be,  yo'd  leave  the 
muddle  just  wheer  'tis.  Mischeevous  stran- 
gers !"  said  Stephen,  with  an  anxious  smile ; 
"when  ha  we  not  heern,  1  am  sure,  sin  ever  we 
can  call  to  mind,  o'  th' mischeevous  strangers! 
'Tis  not  by  them,  the  trouble's  made,  sir.  'Tis 
not  wi'  them  't  commences.  I  ha  no  favor  for 
'em — I  ha  no  reason  to  favor  'em — but  'tis 
hopeless  an  useless  to  dream  o'  takin  them  fro 
their  trade,  'stead  o'  takin  their  trade  fro 
them  I  Aw  that's  now  about  me  in  this  room 
were  heer  afore  I  coom,  an  will  be  heer  when 
I  am  gone.  Put  that  clock  aboard  a  ship  an 
pack  it  off  to  Norfolk  Island,  an  the  time  will 
go  on  just  the  same.  So  'tis  wi'  Slackbridge 
every  bit." 

Reverting  for  a  moment  to  his  former  re- 
fuse, he  observed  a  cautionary  movement  of 
her  eyes  towards  the  door.  Stepping  back,  he 
put  his  hand  upon  the  lock.  But,  he  had  not 
spoken  out  of  his  own  will  and  desire;  and  he 
felt  it  in  his  heart  a  noble  return  for  his  late 
injurious  treatment,  to  be  faithful  to  the  last  to 
those  who  had  repudiated  him.  He  stayed  to 
finish  what  was  in  his  mind. 

"Sir,  I  canna,  wi'  my  little  learning  an  my 
common  way,  tell  the  genelman  what  will 
better  aw  this — though  some  working-men  o' 
this  town  could,  above  my  powers — but  I  can 
tell  him  what  I  know  will  never  do't.  The 
strong  hand  will  never  do't.  Vict'ry  and 
triumph  will  never  do't.  Agreein  fur  to  mak 
one  si  le  unnat' rally  awlus  and  for  ever  right, 
and  toother  side  unnat'rally  awlus  and  for  ever 
wrong,  will  never,  never  do't.  Ivor  yet  lettin 
alone  will  never  do't.  Let  thousands  upon 
thousands  alone,  aw  leadin  the  like  lives 
and  aw  faw'en  into  the  like  muddle,  and  they 
will  be  as  one,  an  yo  will  be  as  anoother,  wi'  a 
black  unpassable  world  betwixt  yo,  just  as  long 
or  short  a  time  as  sitch  like  misery  can  last. 
Not  drawin  nigh  to  fok,  wi'  kindness  an 
patience  an  cheery  ways,  that  so  draws  nigh  to 
one  another  in  their  monny  troubles,  and  so 
cherishes  one  another  in  their  distresses  wi' 
what  they  need  themseln — like,  I  humbly  be- 
lieve, as  no  people  the  gentleman  ha  seen  in 
aw  his  travels  can  beat — will  never  do't  till 
th'  Sun  turns  t'  ice.  Last  o'  aw,  jatin  'em  as 
so  much  Power,  and  reg'latin  'em  as  if  they 
was  figures  in  a  soom,  or  machines;  wi'out 
loves  and  likeins,  wi'out  memories  and  in- 
clinations wi'out  souls  to  weary  an  souls  to 
hope — when  aw  goes  quiet,  draggin  on  wi' 
'e;n  as  if  they'd  nowt  o'  th'  kind,  an  when 
aw  jjoes  onquiet,  reproaching  'em  fur  their 
want  o'  sitch  humanly  feelins  in  their  dealins 
wi'  yo — this  will  never  do't,  sir,  till  God's 
work  ia  unmade." 


Stephen  stood  with  the  open  door  in  his 
hand,  waiting  to  know  if  anything  more  were 
expected  of  him. 

"Just  stop  a  moment,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
excessively  red  in  the  face  "I  told  you,  the 
last  time  you  were  here  with  a  grievance, 
that  you  had  better  turn  about  and  come 
out  of  that.  And  I  also  told  you,  if  you 
remember,  that  I  was  up  to  the  gold  spoon 
look-out." 

"I  were  not  up  to't  myseln,  air ;  I  do  assure 
yo." 

"Now,  it's  clear  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
"that  you  are  one  of  those  chaps  who  have 
always  got  a  grievance.  And  you  go  about, 
sowing  it  and  raising  crops.  That's  the  busi 
ness  oi'i/ori)-  life,  my  friend." 

Stephen  shook  his  head,  mutely  protesting 
that  indeed  he  had  other  business  to  do  tor  his 
life. 

"You  are  such  a  waspish,  raspish,  ill-con- 
ditioned chap,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
"that  even  your  own  Union,  the  men  who 
know  you  best,  will  have  nothing  to  do  with 
you.  I  never  thought  those  fellows  could  be 
right  in  anything;  but  I  tell  you  what!  I  so 
far  go  along  with  them  for  a  novelty,  that  I'll 
have  nothing  to  do  with  you  either." 

Stephen  raised  his  eyes  quickly  to  his  face. 

"You  can  finish  off  what  you're  at,"  said  Mr. 
Bounderby,  with  a  meaning  nod,  "and  then  go 
elsew'nere." 

"Sir,  yo  know  weel,"  said  Stephen  expres- 
sively, "that  if  I  canna  get  work  wi'  yo,  I  canna 
get  it  elsewheer." 

The  reply  was,  "What  I  know,  I  know;  and 
what  you  know,  you  know.  I  have  no  more  to 
say  about  :t." 

Stephen  glanced  at  Louisa  again,  but  her 
eyes  were  raised  to  his  no  more;  therefore, 
with  a  sigh,  and  saying,  barely  above  his 
breath,  "Heaven  help  us  aw  in  this  world  !"  he 
departed. 

CHAPTER  XXIL 

It  was  falling  dark  when  Stephen  came  out 
of  Mr.  Bounderby's  house.  The  shadows  of 
night  had  gathered  so  fast,  that  he  did  not 
look  about  him  when  he  closed  the  door,  but 
plodded  straight  along  the  street.  Nothing, 
was  further  from  his  thoughts  than  the  curious 
ohi  woman  he  had  encountered  on  his  previous 
visit  to  the  same  house,  when  he  heard  a  step 
behind  him  that  he  knew,  and,  turning,  saw 
her  inRachael's  company. 

He  saw  Rachael  first,  as  he  had  heard  her 
only. 

"Ah,  Rachael,  my  dear  I  Missus,  thon  wi' 
herl" 

"  Well,  and  now  you  are  surprised  to  be 
sure,  and  with  reason  I  must  say,"  the  old 
woman  returned.  "  Here  1  am  again,  you 
see." 

"But  how  wi'  Rachael  ?"  said  Stephen,  fall- 
ing into  their  step,  walking  between  them,  and 
looking  from  the  one  to  the  other. 


HARD  TlMft!S. 


137 


"  Why,  I  come  to  be  with  this  good  lass 
pretty  much  as  I  came  to  be  with  you,"  said 
the  old  woTiau  cheerfully,  taking  the  reply 
upon  herself.  "  My  visitinfr  time  is  later  this 
year  than  usual,  for  I  have  been  rather 
troubled  with  shortness  of  breath,  and  so  put 
it  otf  till  the  weather  was  fine  and  warm.  For 
the  same  reason  I  don't  make  all  ray  journey 
in  one  day,  but  divide  it  into  two  days,  and 
get  a  bed  to-night  at  the  Travellers'  Coifee 
House  down  by  the  railroad,  (a  nice  clean 
house,)  and  go  back.  Parliamentary,  at  six 
in  the  morning.  Well,  but  what  has  this  to 
do  with  this  good  lass,  says  you?  I'm  going 
to  tell  you.  I  have  heard  of  Mr.  Bounderby 
being  married  I  read  it  in  the  paper,  where 
it  looked  grand — oh,  it  looked  tine  I"  the 
old  woman  dtvelt  on  it  with  strange  enthu- 
siasm ;  "and  I  want  to  see  his  wife.  I  have 
never  seen  her  yet.  Now,  if  you'll  believe 
me,  she  hasn't  come  out  of  that  house  since 
noon  to-day.  So,  not  to  give  her  up  too 
easily,  I  was  waiting  about,  a  little  last  bit 
more,  when  I  passed  close  to  this  good  lass 
two  or  three  times ;  and  her  face  being  so 
friendly  I  spoke  to  her,  and  she  spoke  to  me. 
There  I"  said  the  old  woman  to  Stephen, 
"vou  can  make  all  the  rest  out  for  yourself 
now,  a  deal  shorter  than  I  can,  I  dare  say  !" 

Once  again,  Stephen  had  to  conquer  an  in- 
stinctive propensity  to  dislike  this  old  woman, 
though  ter  maimer  was  as  honest  and  simple 
as  a  manner  possibly  could  be.  With  a  gen- 
tleness that  was  as  natural  to  him  as  he  knew 
it  to  be  to  Rachael,  he  pursued  the  subject  that 
interested  her  in  her  old  age. 

"Well,  missus,''  said  he,  "I  ha  seen  the  lady, 
and  she  were  yoong  and  hansom.  Wi'  fine 
dark  thinkin  eyes,  and  a  still  way,  Rachael,  as 
1  ha  never  seen  the  like  on." 

"Young  and  handsome.  Yes !"'  cried  the 
old  woman,  quite  delighted.  ''As  bonny  as  a 
rose  I     And  what  a  happy  veife!"' 

"Aye,  missus,  I  suppose  she  be,"  said 
Stephen.  But  with  a  doubtful  glance  at 
Kachael. 

"Suppose  she  be?  She  must  be.  She's 
your  master's  wife,"  returned  the  old  woman. 

Stephen  nodded  assent.  "Thou£rh  as  to 
master,"  said  he,  glancing  again  at  Rachael, 
*'not  master  onny  more.  That's  aw  enden 
twixt  hiui  and  me." 

"Have  you  left  his  work,  Stephen?"  asked 
Rachael,  anxiouslv  and  quickly. 

"Whv,  Rachael,"'  he  replied,  "whether  I  ha 
lefi'n  his  work,  or  whether  his  work  ha  lefl'n 
me,  cuoms  t'  th'  same.  His  work  and  me  are 
paited.  'Tis  as  weel  so — better,  I  were 
thinkin  when  yo  coom  up  wi'  me.  It  would  ha 
brought'n  trouble  upon  trouble  if  I  had  stayed 
theer.  Haply  'tis  a  kindness  to  monny  that 
I  go;  haply  'tis  a  kindness  to  myseln  ;  anyways 
it  mun  be  done.  I  mun  turn  my  face  fro  Coke- 
town  fur  th'  tiiie,  an  seek  a  fort'n,  dear,  by 
beginnin  fresh."' 

"Where  will  you  jjo,  Stephen?" 

"I  dunuo  t'night,"'  said  he,  lifting  off  his  hat, 


and  smoothing  his  thin  hair  with  the  flatof  hig 
hand.  "But  I'm  not  a  goin'  t'night,  Rachael ; 
nor  yet  t"  morrow.  Tan"t  easy  overniuch,  t' 
know  wheer  t'  turn,  but  a  good  heart  will  coom 
to  me." 

Herein,  too,  the  sense  of  even  thinking  un- 
selfishly aided  him.  Before  he  had  so  much  as 
closed  Mr.  Bounderby"s  door,  he  had  reflected 
that  at  least  his  being  obliged  to  go  away  whs 
good  for  her,  as  it  would  save  her  from  the 
chance  of  being  brought  into  question  for 
not  withdrawing  from  him.  Though  it  would 
cost  him  a  hard  pang  to  leave  her,  and 
though  he  could  think  of  no  similar  place  in 
which  his  condemnation  would  not  pursue 
him,  perhaps  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  be  forced 
away  from  the  endurance  of  the  last  four  days, 
even  to  unknown  difficulties  and  distresses. 

So  he  said,  with  truth,  "I'm  more  leetsome 
Rachael,  under  't,  than  I  couldn  ha  believed." 
It  was  not  her  part  to  make  his  burden  heavier. 
She  answered  with  her  comforting  smile,  and 
the  three  walked  on  together. 

Age,  especially  when  it  strives  to  be  self- 
reliant  and  cheerful,  finds  much  consideration 
among  the  poor.  The  old  woman  was  so 
decent  and  contented,  and  made  so  light  of 
her  infirmities,  though  they  had  increased  upon 
her  since  her  former  interview  with  Stephen, 
that  they  both  took  an  interest  in  her.  She 
was  too  sprightly  to  allow  of  their  walking  at 
a  slow  pace  on  her  account,  but  she  was  very 
grateful  to  be  talked  to,  and  very  willin?  to 
talk  to  any  extent :  so,  when  they  came  to 
their  part  of  the  town,  she  was  more  brisk  and 
vivacious  than  ever. 

"Coom  to  my  poor  place,  missus,"'  paid 
Stephen,  "and  tak  a  coop  o'  tea.  Rachael 
will  coom  then,  and  arterwards  i"ll  see  thee 
safe  t'  thy  Travellers'  lodgin.  'T  may  be  long, 
Rachael,  ere  ever  1  ha  th'  chance  o'  thy  coom- 
pany  agen." 

They  complied,  and  the  three  went  on  to 
the  house  where  he  lodged.  When  they 
turned  into  the  narrow  street,  Stephen  glanced 
at  his  window  with  a  dread  that  always  haunt- 
ed his  desolate  home;  but  it  was  open,  as  he 
had  left  it,  and  no  one  was  there.  The  evil 
spirit  of  his  life  had  flitted  away  again,  months 
ago,  and  he  had  heard  no  more  of  her  since. 
The  only  evidences  of  her  last  return  now,  were 
the  scantier  movables  in  his  room,  and  the 
grayer  hair  upon  his  head. 

He  lighted  a  candle,  set  out  his  little  tea- 
board,  got  hot  water  from  below,  and  brought 
in  small  portions  of  tea  and  sugar,  a  loaf,  and 
some  butter,  from  the  nearest  shop.  The  bread 
was  new  and  crusty,  the  butter  fresh,  and 
the  sugar  lump,  of  course — in  fulfilment  of 
tlie  standard  testimony  of  the  Coketown 
magnates,  that  these  people  lived  like  princes, 
sir.  Rachael  made  the  tea  (so  large  a  party 
necessitated  the  borrowing  of  a  cup),  and 
the  visiter  enjoyed  it  mightily.  It  was  the 
first  glimpse  of  sociality  the  host  had  liad  for 
many  days.  He  too,  with  the  world  a  wide 
heath  before  him,  enjoyed  the  meal — again  iu 


138 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


corroboration  of  the  magnates,  as  exemplify- 
ing the  utter  want  of  calculation  on  the  part 
of  these  people,  sir. 

"I  ha  never  thowt  yet,  missus,"  said  Stephen, 
"o'  askiii  thy  name." 

The  old  lady  announced  herself  as  "Mrs. 
Pegler." 

"A  widder,  I  think  ?"  said  Stephen. 

"Oh,  many  long  years  I"  Mrs.  Pegler's 
husband  (one  of  the  best  on  record)  was 
already  dead,  by  Mrs.  Pegler's  calculation, 
when  Stephen  was  born. 

"'Twere  a  bad  job  too,  to  lose  so  good  a  one," 
said  Stephen.     "Onny  children  ?" 

Mrs.  Pegler's  cup,  rattling  against  her  saucer 
as  she  held  it,  denoted  some  nervousness  on 
her  part.  "No,"  she  said.  "Not  now,  not 
now." 

"Dead,  Stephen,"  Rachael  softly  hinted. 

"  'm  sooary  I  ha  spok'u  on't,"  said  Stephen. 
"I  ought  t'  ha  hadn  in  my  mind  as  I  might 
touch  a  sore  place.     I — I  blame  myseln." 

While  he  excused  himself,  the  old  lady's 
cup  rattled  more  and  more.  "I  had  a  sou," 
she  said,  curiously  distressed,  and  not  by  any 
of  the  usual  appearances  of  sorrow;  ^'and  he 
did   well,  wonderfully  well.     But  he  is  not  to 

be  spoken  of   if    you  please.      He   is " 

Putting  down  her  cup,  she  moved  her  hands 
as  if  she  would  have  added,  by  her  action, 
"  dead  1"  Then,  she  said,  aloud,  "  I  have  lost 
him." 

Stephen  had  not  yet  got  the  better  of  his 
having  given  the  old  lady  pain,  when  his  land- 
ladv  came  stumbling  up  the  narrow  stairs,  and 
calling  him  to  the  door,  whispered  in  his  ear. 
Mrs.  Pegler  was  by  nn  means  deaf,  for  she 
caught  a  word  as  it  was  uttered. 

"  Bounderby  !"  she  cried,  in  a  suppressed 
voice,  starting  up  Irom  the  table.  "  Oh,  hide 
me!  Don't  let  me  be  seen  for  the  world. — 
Don't  let  him  come  up  till  I  have  got  away. 
Pray,  pray  1"  She  trembled,  and  was  exces- 
sively agitated  ;  getting  behind  Rachael,  when 
Rachael  tried  to  reassure  her  ;  and  not  seem- 
ing to  know  what  she  was  about. 

"  But  hearken,  missus,  hearken ;"  said 
Stephen,  astonished,  "  'Tisnt  Mr.  Bounderby  ; 
'tis  his  wife.  Yor  not  fearfo'  o'  her.  Yo  was 
hey-go-mad  about  her,  but  an  hour  sin." 

"But  are  you  sure  it's  the  lady  and  not  the 
gentleman  ?"  she  asked,  still  trembling. 

"  Certain  sure  1" 

"  Well  then,  pray  don't  speak  to  me,  nor  yei 
take  any  notice  of  me,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"Let  me  be  quite  to  myselfin  this  corner." 

Stephen  nodded  ;  looking  to  Rachael  for  an 
explauation,  which  she  was  quite  unable  to 
give  him  ;  took  the  candle,  wcLt  down  stairs, 
and  in  a  few  moments  returned  lighting 
Louisa  into  the  room.  She  was  followed  by 
the  whelp. 

Rachael  had  risen,  and  stood  apart  with 
her  shawl  and  bonnet  in  her  hand,  when 
Stephen,  himself  profoundly  astonished  by 
this  visit,  put  the  caudle  on  the  table.     Then 


he  too  stood,  with  his  doubled  hand  upon  the 
table  near  it,  waiting  to  be  addressed. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Louisa  had 
come  into  one  of  the  dwellings  of  the  Coke- 
town  Hands  ;  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
she  was  face  to  face  with  anything 
like  individuality  in  connexion  with  them. 
She  knew  of  their  existence  by  hundreds 
and  by  thousands.  She  knew  what  results  in 
work  a  given  number  of  them  would  produce, 
in  a  given  space  of  time.  She  knew  them  in 
crowds  passing  to  and  from  their  nests,  like 
ants  or  beetles.  But  she  knew  from  her  read- 
ing infinitely  more  of  the  ways  of  toiling  in- 
sects, than  of  these  toiling  men  and  women. 

Something  to  be  worked  so  much  and  paid 
so  much,  and  there  ended;  something  to  be 
infallibly  settled  by  laws  of  supply  and  de- 
mand ;  something  that  blundered  against 
those  laws,  and  floundered  into  difficulty ; 
something  that  was  a  little  pinched  when 
wheat  was  dear,  and  over-rate  itself  when 
wheat  was  cheap ;  something  that  increased 
at  such  a  rate  of  per  centage,  and  yielded  such 
another  per  centage  of  crime,  and  such 
another  per  centage  of  pauperism  ;  something 
wholesale,  of  which  vast  fortunes  were  made ; 
something  that  occasionally  rose  like  a  sea,  and 
did  some  harm  and  waste  (chiefly  to  itself), 
and  fell  again ;  this  she  knew  the  Coketown 
Hands  to  be.  But,  she  had  scarcely  thought 
more  of  separating  them  into  units,  than  of 
separating  the  sea  itself  into  its  component 
drops. 

She  stood  for  some  moments  looking  round 
the  room.  Prom  the  few  chairs,  the  few 
books,  the  common  prints,  and  the  bed,  she 
glanced  to  the  two  women,  and  to  Stephen. 

"  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you,  in  conse- 
quence of  what  passed  just  now.  I  should 
like  to  be  serviceable  to  you,  if  you  will  let 
me.     Is  this  your  wife?" 

Rachael  raised  her  eyes,  and  they  sufficiently 
answered  no.  and  dropped  again. 

"I  remember,"  said  Louisa,  reddening  at 
her  mistake;  '"I  recollect,  now,  to  have  heard 
your  domestic  misfortunes  spoken  of  though 
I  was  not  attending  to  the  particulars  at  the 
time.  It  was  not  my  meaning  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion that  would  give  pain  to  any  one  here.  If 
I  should  ask  any  other  question  that  may  hap- 
pen to  have  that  result,  give  me  credit,  if  you 
please,  for  being  in  ignorance  how  to  speak  to 
you  as  I  ought." 

As  Stephen  had  but  a  little  while  ago  in- 
stinctively addressed  himself  to  her,  so  she  now 
instinctively  addressed  herself  to  Rachael. 
Her  manner  was  short  and  abrupt,  yet  falter- 
ing and  timid. 

"He  has  told  you  what  has  y  assed  between 
himself  and  my  husband?  You  would  be  his 
first  resource,  I  think." 

"I  have  heard  the  end  of  it,  young  lady," 
said  Rachael. 

"Did  I  understand,  that,  b'  in"  rejected  by 
one  employer,  he  would  probably  be  rejected 
by  all?     1  thought  he  said  as  much?" 


HARD  TIMES. 


139 


"The  chances  are  very  small,  young  lady — 
next  to  nothing — for  a  man  who  gets  a  bad 
name  among  them." 

"What  shall  I  understand  that  you  mean  by 
a  bad  name?" 

"The  name  of  being  troublesome." 

"Then,  by  the  prejudices  of  his  own  class, 
and  by  the  prejudices  of  the  other,  he  is  sacri- 
ficed alike  ?  Are  the  two  so  deeply  sepa- 
rated in  this  town,  that  there  is  no  place 
whatever,  for  an  honest  workman  between 
them  ?" 

Rachael  shook  her  head  in  silence. 

"He  fell  into  suspicion,"  said  Louisa,  "with 
his  iellow-weavers,  because  he  had  made  a 
promise  not  to  be  one  of  them.  I  think  it 
must  have  been  to  you  that  he  made  that  pro- 
mise.    Might  I  ask  you  why  he  made  it?" 

Rachael  burst  into  tears.  "I  didn't  seek  it 
of  him,  poor  lad.  I  prayed  him  to  avoid  trou- 
ble for  his  own  good,  little  thinking  he'd  come 
to  it  through  me.  But  I  know  he'd  die  a  hun- 
dred deaths,  ere  ever  he'd  break  his  word.  I 
know  that  of  him  well." 

Stephen  had  remained  quietly  attentive  in 
his  usual  thoughtful  attitude,  with  his  hand 
at  his  chin.  He  now  spoke  in  a  voice  rather 
less  steady  than  usual. 

"No  one,  excepting  myseln,  can  ever  know 
what  honor,  an  what  love,  an  respect,  I  bear 
to  Rachael,  or  wi'  what  cause.  When  I  passed 
that  promess,  I  towd  her  true,  she  were  th' 
Angel  o'  my  life.  '  fwere  a  solemn  promess. 
'Tis  gone  fro  me,  fur  ever." 

Louisa  turned  her  head  to  him,  and  bent  it 
with  a  defrence  that  was  new  in  her.  She 
louked  from  him  to  Rachael,  and  her  features 
sofiened.  "What  will  you  do?"'  stie  asked 
him.     And  her  voice  had  softened  too, 

"Weel,  inaajn,"  said  Stephen,  makin?  the 
best  of  it,  with  a  smile;  "when  I  ha  iiuished 
off,  I  mun  quit  this  part,  an  try  another.  Fort- 
net  or  mislortnet,  a  man  can  but  try;  there's 
nowt  to  he  done  wi'out  tryin' — cept  laying 
doun  an  dying." 

"How  will  you  travel?'' 

".Vfoot,  my  kind  leddy,  afoot. 

Louisa  colored,  and  a  purse  appeared  in  her 
hand.  Tiie  rustling  of  a  bankiune  was  audi- 
ble, as  she  unfolded  one  and  laid  it  oa  the 
table. 

"Kachael,  will  you  tell  him  —for  you  know 
how,  without  offence — that  this  is  freely  his, 
to  help  him  on  his  way?  Will  you  entreat  him 
to  take  it?" 

"I  canna'  do  that,  young  lady,"  she  answer- 
ed, turning  her  head  aside;  "bless  you  for 
thinkinjr  o'  the  poor  lad  wi'  such  tenderness. 
But  'tis  for  him  to  know  his  heart,  and  what  is 
right  according  to  it." 

Louisa  looked,  in  part  incredulou'*,  in  part 
frightened, in  part  overcome  with  quick  sympa- 
thy, when  this  man  of  so  much  self  command, 
who  had  been  so  plain  and  steady  through  the 
late  interview,  lost  his  composure  in  a  moment, 
and  now  stood  with  his  hand  before  his  face. 
She  stretched   cut  hers,  as  if  she  would  have 


touched  him;  then  checked  herself,  and  re- 
mained still. 

"Not  e'en  Rachael,"  said  Stephen,  when 
he  stood  again  with  his  face  uncovered, 
"could  mak  sitch  a  kind  offerin,  by  onny 
words,  kinder.  T'  show  that  I'm  not  a 
man  wi'out  reason  and  gratitude,  I'll  tak 
two  pound.  I'll  borrow't  for  t'  pay't  back. — 
'T  will  be  the  sweetest  work  as  ever  I  ha 
done,  that  puts  it  in  my  power  t'  acknowledge 
once  more  uiy  lastiu  thankfulness  for  this  pre- 
sent action." 

She  was  fain  to  take  up  the  note  again,  and 
to  substitute  the  much  smaller  sum  he  had 
named.  He  was  neither  courtly,  nor  hand- 
some, nor  picturesque,  in  any  respect;  and  yet 
his  manner  of  accepting  it,  and  of  expressing 
his  thanks  without  more  words,  had  a  grace  in 
it  that  Lord  Chesterfield  could  not  have  taught 
his  son  in  a  century. 

Tom  had  sat  upon  the  bed,  swinging  one 
leg  and  sucking  his  walking-stick  with  suf- 
ficient unconcern,  until  the  visit  had  attained 
this  stage.  Seeing  his  sister  ready  to  depart, 
he  got  up,  rather  hurriedly,  and  put  in  a  word. 

"Just  wait  a  moment.  Loo!  Before  we 
go.  1  should  like  to  speak  to  him  a  moment. 
Something  conies  into  my  head  If  you'll 
step  out  on  the  stairs,  Blackpool,  I'll  mention 
it.  Never  mind  a  light,  manl"  Tom  was 
remarkably  impatient  of  his  moving  towards 
the  cupboard,  to  get  one.  "It  don't  want  a 
light." 

Stephen  followed  hiji  out,  and  Tom  closed 
the  room  door,  and  held  the  lock  in  his  hand. 

"I  say!"  he  whispered.  "I  think  I  can  do 
you  a  good  turn.  Lon't  ask  me  what  it  is, 
because  it  may  not  come  to  anything.  But 
there's  no  harm  in  my  trying." 

His  breath  fell  like  a  flame  of  fire  on  Ste- 
phen's ear;  it  was  so  hot. 

"That  was  our  light  porter  at  the  Bank," 
said  'J'om,  "who  brought  you  the  message  ti- 
night.  i  call  him  our  light  porter,  because  I 
belong  to  the  Bank  too." 

Stephen  thought  "What  a  hurry  he  is  in!" 
Ue  spoke  so  comusedly. 

"Well!"  said  Tom.  "Now  look  here!  When 
are  you  oti?" 

"  I  'day's  Monday,"*  replied  Stephen,  con- 
sidering. "Why,  sir,  Friday  or  Saturday,  nigh 
'bout." 

"Friday  or  Saturday,"  said  Tom.  "Now, 
look  here!  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  do  you 
the  good  turn  I  want  to  do  you — that's  my 
sister,  you  know,  in  your  room — but  i  may  be 
able  to,  and  if  I  should  not  be  able  to,  there's 
no  harm  done.  So  I  tell  you  what.  You'll 
know  our  light  porter  again?" 

"Yes  sure,"  said  Stephen. 

"Very  well,"  returned  Tmn.  "When  you 
leave  work  of  a  night,  between  this  and  \uur 
going  away,  just  hang  about  the  Bank  an  huur 
or  so,  will  you?  Don't  take  on,  as  if  you  meant 
anythinir,  if  he  should  see  you  han;.;ing  about 
there;  because  I  shan't  put  him  up  to  speak  to 
you,    unless  1  find  i  can  do  you  the  service  I 


140 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


want  to  do  you.  In  that  case  he'll  have  a  note 
or  a  message  for  you,  l)iit  not  else.  Now  look 
here!     You  are  sure  yuu  understand." 

He  had  wormed  a  tiu^^er,  in  the  dark- 
ness, throuf^h  a  button-lioln  of  Stephen"^ 
coat,  and  was  screwing  that  corner  of  tiie  gar- 
ment tight  up,  round  aud  round,  in  an  extraor- 
dinary manner. 

"1  understand,  sir,"'  said  Stephen. 

"Now  look  here  !"  repeated  1  om.  "Be  sure 
you  don't  make  any  mistake  tht-n,  and  don't 
t'orgtt  I  shall  U:\[  my  sister  as  we  go  lionu-, 
what  I  have  in  view, and  .•ihe'll  approve,  1  know. 
Now  look  here!  You're  all  right,  are  yt.puV 
You  understand  all  about  it  ?  Very  well  then. 
Come  along,  Loo!'' 

He  pushed  the  door  open  as  he  called  to  her, 
but  did  not  return  into  the  room,  or  wait  to  be 
lighted  down  the  narrow  stairs.  He  was  at 
the  bottom  when  she  began  to  descend,  and 
was  in  the  street  before  she  could  take  his 
arm. 

Mrs.  Pegl  r  remained  in  hei"  corner  until 
the  brother  and  sister  were  gone,  and  until 
Sieplien  came  back  with  the  candle  in  iiis 
hand.  She  was  in  a  state  of  inexpressible 
admiration  of  Mrs.  tsounderby,  and,  like  an 
unaccountable  old  woman,  wept,  "  becaus  ■ 
she  was  such  a  pretty  dear."  Yet  Mrs. 
Pegler  was  so  flurried  lest  the  object  of 
her  admiration  should  return  by  any  chance, 
or  anybody  else  should  come,  that  her 
cheerfulness  was  ended  for  that  night.  It 
was  late  too,  to  people  who  rose  early  and 
worked  hard ;  therefore  the  party  broke 
up  ;  and  Stephen  and  Rachael  escorted  their 
mysterious  acquaintance  to  the  door  of  the 
Travellers'  Culf'ee  House,  where  they  parted 
from  her. 

They  walked  back  together  to  the  corner 
of  the  street  where  iiachael  lived,  and  as  they 
drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  it,  silence  crept 
upon  thein.  When  they  came  to  the  dark 
corner  where  their  unfrequent  meetings  always 
ended,  they  stopped,  still  silent,  as  if  both  were 
afraid  to  speak. 

"  I  shall  strive  t'  see  thee  agen,  Rachael, 
afore  1  go,  l)ut  if  not '' 

"Thou  wilt  not,  Stephen,  I  know.  'Tis  bet- 
ter that  we  make  up  our  minds  to  be  optu  wi' 
one  another." 

"  Thou  'rt  awlus  right.  'Tis  bolder  and 
better.  I  ha'  been  thinkin,  then,  Rachael, 
that  as  'tis  but  a  day  or  two  that  remains, 
'twere  better  for  thee,  my  dear,  not  t'  be  seen 
wi'  me.  'T  might  bring  thee  into  trouble,  fur 
no  good." 

'•  Tis  not  for  that,  Stephen,  that  I  mind.  But 
thou  know'st  our  old  agreement.   'Tis  for  that." 

"Well,  well,"  said  he.  "'Tis  better,  onny- 
ways." 

"Thou'lt  write  to  me,  and  tell  me  all  that 
happens,  Stephen '/"' 

"Y'es.  What  can  I  say  now,  but  Heaven  be 
wi'  thee.  Heaven  bless  thee.  Heaven  thank 
thee,  and  reward  thee!'' 

"May  it  bleos  thee,  Stephen,  too,  in  all  thy 


wanderings,  and  send  thee  peace  and  rest  at 
last!" 

"I  towd  thee,  my  dear,"  said  Stephen  Black- 
pool— "that  niglit — that  1  woild  i.ever  see  or 
think  o'  onnything  that  angered  me.  Out  thou, 
so  much  better  than  me,  should'st  be  beside  it. 
Thou'rt  beside  it  now.  Thou  mak'st  me  see  it 
wi'  a  better  eye.  Biess  thee.  Good  night. 
Good  bye!" 

It  was  but  a  hurried  parting  in  the  common 
Street,  yet  it  was  a  sacred  remembrance  to 
these  two  common  people.  Ulililanan  econo- 
mists, skeletons  of  schoolmasters.  Commission- 
ers ot  Fact,  genteel  and  used  up  infidels,  gab- 
blers of  nnmy  little  dog's-eared  creeds,  the 
poor  you  will  liave  always  with  you.  Cultivate 
in  them,  while  there  is  yet  time,  the  utmost 
graces  of  the  fancies  and  atfectiuiis,  to  adorn 
their  lives  so  much  in  need  of  ornament;  or, 
in  the  moment  of  your  triumph,  when  ro- 
mance is  utterly  driven  out  of  their  souls,  and 
they  and  a  bare  existence  stand  face  to  face, 
Reality  will  take  a  wolhsh  turn,  and  make  au 
end  ot  you! 

Stephen  worked  the  next  day,  and  the  next, 
uncheered  by  a  word  from  any  one,  and 
shunned  in  all  his  comings  and  goings  as  be- 
fore. At  the  end  of  the  second  day,  he 
saw  land;  at  the  end  of  the  third,  his  loom 
stood  empty. 

He  had  overstayed  his  hour  in  the  street 
outside  the  Hank,  on  each  of  the  two  first 
evenings;  and  nothing  had  happened  there, 
good  or  bad.  That  he  might  not  be  reiuisa 
in  his  part  of  the  engagement,  he  resolved  to 
wait  full  two  hours, on  this  third  and  last  nighu 

There  was  the  lady  who  had  once  kept  Mr. 
Boundeiby's  house,  sitting  at  the  hrsi  floor 
window  as  he  had  seen  her  bet'ore;  and  there 
was  the  light  porter,  sometimes  talking  with 
her  there,  and  sometimes  looking  over  the 
blind  below  which  had  Bank  ufmn  it,  and 
sometimes  coming  to  the  door  and  standing 
on  the  steps  for  a  breath  of  air.  W  hen  he 
first  came  out,  Stephen  thought  he  might  be 
looking  for  him,  and  passed  near;  but  tiie  light 
porter  only  cast  his  winking  e}es  upon  him 
slightly,  and  said  nothing. 

1  wo  hours  were  a  long  stretch  of  lounging 
about,  after  a  long  day's  labor.  Stephen  sat 
upon  the  step  of  a  door,  leaned  against  a  wall 
under  an  archway,  strolled  up  and  down,  list- 
ened for  the  church  clock,  stopped  and  watched 
children  playing  in  the  street.  Some  pur[>ose 
or  other  is  so  natural  to  every  one,  that  a  mere 
loiterer  always  looks  and  feels  remarkable. — 
When  the  hist  hour  was  out,  Stephen  even  be- 
gan to  have  an  uncomfortable  sensation  upon 
him  of  being  for  the  time  a  disreputable  cha- 
racter. 

'1  hen  came  the  lamplighter,  and  two  length- 
ening lines  of  light  all  down  the  long  perspec- 
tive of  the  sireet,  until  they  were  blended  ..nd 
lost  in  the  distance.  Mrs.  Sparsit  chased  the 
hrst  floor  window,  drew  down  the  blind,  and 
went  up  stair.-J.  Presently,  a  light  went  up 
stairs  after  her,  passing  hrst  the  tanligbi  of 


HARD  TIMES. 


141 


the  door,  and  afterwards  the  two  staircase 
windows,  on  its  way  up.  By  and  by,  one  corner 
of  the  second  floor  blind  was  disturbed,  as  if 
Mrs.  Sparsit's  eye  were  there;  also  the  other 
corner,  as  it' the  light  porter's  eye  were  on  that 
side.  Still  no  communication  was  made  to 
Stephen.  Much  relieved  when  the  two  hours 
were  at  last  accomplished,  he  went  away  at  a 
quick  pace,  as  a  recompense  for  so  much  loi- 
tering. 

He  had  only  to  take  leave  of  his  landlady, 
and  lie  down  on  his  temporary  bed  upon  the 
floor ;  for  his  bundle  was  made  u[)  for  to-mor- 
row, and  all  was  arranged  for  his  departure. 
He  meant  to  be  clear  of  the  town  very  early : 
before  the  Hands  were  in  the  streets. 

It  was  barely  daybreak,  when  with  a  parting 
look  round  his  room,  mournfully  wondering 
whether  he  should  ever  see  it  again,  he  went 
out.  The  town  was  as  entirely  deserted  as  if 
the  inhabitants  had  abandoned  it,  rather  than 
hold  communication  with  him.  Everything 
looked  wan  at  that  hour.  Even  the  coining 
sun  made  but  a  pale  waste  in  the  sky,  like  a 
sad  sea. 

By  the  place  where  Rachael  lived,  though  it 
was  not  in  his  way  ;  by  the  red  brick  streets  ; 
by  the  great  silent  factories,  not  trembling  yet ; 
by  the  railway,  where  the  danger-lights  were 
waning  in  the  strengthening  day ;  by  the  rail- 
way's crazy  neighborhood,  half  pulled  down 
and  half  built  up  ;  by  scattered  red  brick  villas. 
where  the  besmoked  evergreens  were  sprinkled 
with  a  dirty  powder,  like  untidy  snutf-takers  ; 
by  coal-dust  paths  and  many  varieties  of  ug'i- 
ness  ;  Stephen  got  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  and 
looked  back. 

Day  was  shining  radiantly  upon  the  town 
then,  and  the  bells  were  going  for  the  morn- 
ing vv'ork.  Domestic  fires  were  not  yet  lighted, 
and  the  high  chimneys  had  the  sky  to  them- 
selves. Puffing  out  their  poisonous  volumes, 
they  would  not  be  long  in  hiding  it;  but,  for 
half  an  hour,  some  of  the  many  windows  were 
golden,  which  showed  the  Coketown  people  a 
sun  eternally  in  eclipse,  through  a  medium  of 
smoked  glass. 

So  strange  to  turn  from  the  chimneys  to  the 
birds.  So  strange  to  have  the  road  dust  on 
liis  feet  instead  of  the  coal-grit.  So  str  nge 
to  have  lived  to  his  time  of  life,  and  yet  to  be 
begiiming  like  a  boy  this  summer  morning ! 
With  these  musings  in  his  mind,  and  his  bundle 
under  his  arm,  Stephen  toi.'k  his  attentive  face 
alon^::  the  high  road.  And  the  trees  arched 
over  him,  whispering  that  he  left  a  true  and 
loving  heart  behind. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Mr.  James  Harthouse,  "going  in"'  for  his 
adopted  party,  soon  began  to  score.  With  the 
aid  of  a  little  more  coaching  for  the  political 
sages,  a  little  more  genteel  listlessness  for  the 
general  society,  and  a  tolerable  management 
of  the  assumed  honesty  in  dishonesty,  most  ef- 
fective and  most  patronized  of  the  polite  dead- 


ly sins,  he  speedily  came  to  be  considered  ot 
much  promise.  The  not  being  troubled  with 
earnestness  was  a  grand  point  in  liis  favor, 
en  'bling  him  to  take  to  the  hard  Fact  folio  wa 
with  as  good  a  grace  as  if  he  had  l)een  bora 
one  of  the  tribe,  and  to  ihrow  all  other  tribes 
overboard,  as  conscious  imposters. 

"Whom  none  of  us  believe,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Bounderby,  and  who  do  not  believe  them- 
selves. The  only  dilference  between  us  and 
the  professors  of  virtue  or  benevolence,  or  phi- 
lanthiopy — never  mind  the  name — is,  that 
we  know  it  is  all  meaningless,  and  say  so; 
while  they  know  it  equally  and  will  never  say 
so." 

Why  should  she  be  shocked  or  warned  by 
this  rei  eration?  It  was  not  so  unlike  her 
father's  principles,  and  her  early  training, 
that  it  need  startle  her.  Where  was  the  great 
ditference  between  the  two  schools,  when  each 
chained  her  down  to  material  realities,  and 
inspired  her  with  no  faith  in  anything  else? 
What  was  there  in  her  soul  for  Janu-s  Hart- 
house  to  destroy,  which  Thomas  Gradgrind 
had  nurtured  there  in  its  state  of  innuceiice? 

It  was  even  the  worse  lor  her  at  this  pass; 
that  in  her  mind — implanted  there  before  her 
eminently  practical  father  began  to  form  it — 
a  struggling  disposition  to  believe  in  a  wider 
and  higher  humanity  than  she  had  ever  heard 
of,  Constantly  strove  with  doubts  and  resent 
ments.  With  doubts,  because  the  aspiration 
had  been  so  laid  waste  in  her  youth.  With 
resentments,  because  of  the  wrong  that  had 
been  done  her,  if  it  were  indeed  a  whisper  of 
the  truth.  Upon  a  nature  long  accustomed 
to  self-suppression,  thus  torn  and  divided,  the 
Harthouse  philosophy  came  as  a  relief  and  jus- 
tification. Everything  being  hollow,  and 
w(jrthless,  she  had  missed  nothing  and  sacri- 
ficed nothing.  What  did  it  matter,  she  had 
said  to  her  lather,  when  he  proposed  her  hus- 
band. What  did  it  matter,  she  said  still. — 
With  a  scornful  selfreliance,  she  asked  her- 
self, what  did  anything  matter — and  went  on. 

Towards  what?  Step  by  step,  onward  and 
downward,  towards  some  end,  yet  so  gradu- 
ally that  she  believed  herself  to  remain  mo- 
tioiUess.  As  to  Mr.  Harthouse,  whither  he 
tended,  he  neither  considered  nor  cared.  He 
had  no  particular  design  or  plan  before  him; 
no  energetic  wickedness  ruffled  his  lassi- 
tude. He  was  as  much  amused  and  in- 
terested, at  present,  as  it  became  so  fine  a 
gentleman  to  be;  perhaps  even  more  than  it 
would  have  been  consistent  with  his  reputa- 
tion to  confess.  Soon  af"ter  his  arrival  he  lan- 
guidly wrote  to  his  brother,  tlie  honorable  and 
jocular  member,  that  the  Jiounderbys  were 
'•great  fun ;''  and  further,  that  the  female 
Bounderby,  instead  of  being  the  Gorgon  he 
had  expected,  was  young  aud  remarkably 
pretty.  After  that,  he  wrote  no  more  about 
them,  and  devoted  his  leisure  chiefly  to  their 
house.  He  was  very  often  in  their  house,  in 
his  flittiiiirs  and  visitings  about  the  Coketown 
district;  and   was   much  encouraged   by  Mr. 


142 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


Bounderby.     It  was  quite  in  Mr.  Bounderby's 

gusty  way  to  boast  to  all  his  world  that  he 
didu't  care  about  your  highly  connected  people, 
but  that  if  his  wile  Tom  Gradgrind's  daughter 
did,  she  was  welcome  to  their  company. 

Mr.  James  Harthouse  began  to  think  it 
would  be  a  new  sensation,  if  the  face  which 
changed  so  beautifully  for  the  whelp,  would 
change  for  him. 

He  was  quick  enough  to  observe;  he  had 
a  good  memory,  and  did  not  forget  a  word  of 
the  brother's  revelations.  He  iaterwove  them 
with  everything  he  saw  of  the  sister,  and  he 
began  to  understand  her.  To  be  sure,  the 
better  a  id  profounder  part  of  her  character 
was  not  within  his  scope  of  perception;  for  in 
natures,  as  in  seas,  depth  answers  unto  depth; 
but  he  soon  began  to  read  the  rest  with  a 
student's  eye. 

Mr.  Bouuderby  had  taken  possession  of  a 
house  and  grounds,  about  fifteen  miles  from 
the  town,  and  accessible  within  a  mile  or 
two,  by  a  railwj^  striding  on  many  arches 
over  a  wild  country,  undermined  by  deserted 
coalpits,  and  spotted  at  night  by  fires  and 
black  shapes  of  engines.  This  country,  gra- 
dually softening  towards  the  neighborhood 
of  Mr.  Bounderby's  retreat,  there  mellowed 
into  a  rustic  landscape,  golden  with  heath, 
and  snowy  with  hawthorn  in  the  spring  of  the 
year,  and  tremulous  with  leaves  and  their 
shadows  all  the  summer  time.  The  bank  had 
foreclosed  a  mortgage  on  the  property  thus 
pleasantly  situated:  eflected  by  one  of  the 
Coketown  magnates :  who,  in  his  determina- 
tion to  make  a  shorter  cut  than  usual  to  an 
enormous  fortune,  overspeculated  himself  after- 
wards by  about  two  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
These  accidents  did  sometimes  happen  in  the 
best  regulated  families  of  Coketown,  though 
the  bankrupts  had  no  connexion  whatever 
with  the  improvident  classes. 

It  afforded  Mr.  Bounderby  supreme  satis- 
faction to  instal  himself  in  this  snug  little 
estate,  and  with  demonstrative  humility  to 
grow  cabbages  in  the  flower-garden.  He  de- 
lighted to  live,  barrack  fashion,  among  the 
elegant  furniture,  and  he  bull  ed  the  very 
pictures  with  his  origin.  "Why,  sir,"  he 
would  say  to  a  visiter,  "I  am  told  that 
Nickits,"  the  late  owner,  "gave  seven  hun- 
dred pound  for  that  Sea-beach.  Now,  to 
be  plain  with  you,  if  I  ever,  in  the  whole 
course  of  my  lite,  take  seven  looks  at  it,  at  a 
hundred  pound  a  look,  it  will  be  as  much  as 
I  shall  do.  Noj  by  George!  I  don't  forget 
that  I  am  Josiah  Bounderby,  of  Coketown. 
For  J  ears  upon  years,  the  only  pictures  in  my 
possession,  or  that  I  could  have  got  into  my 
possession  by  any  means,  unless  I  stole  'em, 
were  the  engravings  of  a  man  shaving  himself 
in  a  boot,  on  the  blacking  bottles  that  I  was 
overjoyed  to  use  in  cleaning  boots  with,  and 
that  1  sold  when  they  were  empty  for  a  farthing 
a-piece,  and  glad  to  get  it !" 

Then  he  would  address  Mr.  Harthouse  in 
the  same  style. 


"Harthouse,  you  have  a  couple  of  horse* 
down  here.  Bring  half  a  dozen  more 
if  you  like,  and  we'll  find  room  for  'em. 
There's  'Stabling  in  this  place  for  a  dozen 
horses;  and  unless  Nickits  is  belied,  he  kept 
the  full  number.  A  round  dozen  of  'em,  sir. 
When  that  man  was  a  boy,  he  went  to  West- 
minster School.  Went  to  Westminster  School 
as  a  King's  Scholar,  when  I  was  principally 
living  on  garbage,  and  sleeping  in  market 
baskets.  Why,  if  I  wanted  to  keep  a  dozen 
horses — which  I  don't,  for  one's  enough  for 
me — I  couldn't  bear  to  see  'em  in  their  stalls 
here,  and  think  what  my  own  lodging  used  to 
be.  I  couldn't  look  at  'em,  sir,  and  not  order 
'era  out.  Yet  so  things  come  round.  You  see 
this  place;  you  know  what  sort  of  a  p  ace  it 
is;  you  areaw  are  that  there's  not  a  com- 
pleter place  of  its  size  in  this  kingdom  or 
elsewhere — I  don't  care  where — and  here, 
got  into  the  middle  of  it,  like  a  magtrot  into  a 
nut,  is  Josiah  Bounderby.  While  Nickits,  (as 
a  man  came  into  my  office,  and  told  me 
yesterday,)  Nickits,  who  used  to  act  in  Latin, 
in  the  Westminster  School  plays,  with  the 
chief  justices  and  nobility  of  this  country  ap- 
plauding him  till  they  were  black  in  the  facci 
is  drivelling  at  this  minute — drivelling,  sir  I — 
in  a  fifth  floor,  up  a  narrow  dark  back  street 
in  Antwerp." 

It  was  among  the  leafy  shadows  of  this  re- 
tirement, in  the  long  sultry  summer  days,  that 
Mr.  Harthouse  began  to  prove  the  face  which 
had  set  him  wondering  when  he  first  saw  it, 
and  to  try  if  it  would  change  for  him. 

"  Mrs.  Bounderby,  I  esteem  it  a  most  for- 
tunate accident  that  I  find  you  alone  here.  I 
have  for  some  time  had  a  particular  wish  to 
speak  to  you." 

It  was  not  by  any  wonderful  accident  that 
he  found  her,  the  time  of  day  being  that  at 
which  she  was  always  alone,  and  the  p.lftce 
being  her  favorite  resort.  It  was  an  opening 
in  a  dark  wood,  where  some  felled  trees  lay, 
and  where  she  would  sit  watching  the  fallen 
leaves  of  last  year,  as  she  had  watched  the 
falling  ashes  at  home. 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  with  a  glance  at 
her  face. 

"  Your  brother.     My  young  friend  Tom — "' 

Her  color  brightened,  and  she  turned  to  him 
with  a  look  of  interest.  "  I  never  in  my  life," 
hn  thought,  "  saw  anything  so  remarkable  and 
so  captivating  as  the  lighting  of  those  features!" 
His  face  betrayed  his  thoughts — perhaps  with- 
out betraying  him,  for  it  might  have  been  ac- 
cording to  its  instructions  so  to  do. 

"Pardon  me.  The  expression  of  your  sis- 
terly interest  is  so  beautiful — Tom  should  be 
so  proud  of  it — I  know  this  is  inexcusable,  but  I 
am  so  compelled  to  admire." 

•'Being  so  impulsive,"  she  said  composedly. 

"Mrs.  Bounderby,  no;  you  know  I  make  no 
pretence  with  you.  You  know  1  am  a  sordid 
piece  of  human  nature,  ready  to  sell  myself  at 
any  time  for   any   reasonable   aum,   and  al- 


HARD  TIMES. 


143 


together  incapable  of  any  Arcadian  proceed- 
ing whatever." 

"I  am  waiting,"  she  returned,  "for  your 
further  reference  to  my  brother." 

''You  are  rigid  with  me,  and  I  deserve  it. 
I  am  as  worthless  as  a  dog,  as  yon  will  find, 
except  that  I  am  not  false — not  false.  But 
you  surprised  and  started  me  from  my  subject, 
which  was  your  brother.  I  have  an  interest  in 
him." 

"Have  you  an  interest  in  anything,  Mr. 
Harthouse?"  she  asked,  half  incredueously  and 
half  gratefully. 

"If  you  had  asked  me  when  I  first  came 
here,  I  should  have  said  no.  I  must  say  now — 
even  at  the  hazard  of  appearing  to  make  a 
pretence,  and  of  justly  awakening  your  in- 
credulity— yes." 

She  made  a  slight  movement,  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  speak,  but  could  not  find  voice ;  at 
length  she  said,  "Mr.  Harthouse,  I  give  you 
credit  for  being  interested  in  my  brother." 

"Thank  you.  I  claim  to  deserve  it.  You 
know  how  little  I  do  claim,  but  I  will  go  that 
length.  You  have  done  so  much  for  hi-n,  you 
are  so  fond  of  him;  your  whole  life,  Mrs.  Boun- 
derby,  expresses  such  charming  self  forgetful- 
ness  on  his  account — pardon  me  again — I  am 
running  wide  of  the  subject.  I  am  interested 
in  him  for  his  own  sake." 

She  had  made  the  slightest  action  possible, 
as  if  she  would  have  risen  in  a  hurry  and  gone 
away.  He  had  turned  the  course  of  what  he 
said  at  that  instant,  and  she  remained. 

"  Mrs.  Bounderby,"  he  resumed,  in  a  lighter 
manner,  and  yet  with  a  show  of  effort  in 
assuming  it,  which  was  even  more  expressive 
than  ;he  manner  he  dismissed;  "it  is  no  irre- 
vocable ofience  in  a  young  fellow  of  your 
brother's  years,  if  he  is  heedless,  inconside- 
rate and  expensive — a  little  dissipated,  in  the 
common  phrase.     Is  he?" 

"Yes." 

"Allow  me  to  be  frank.  Do  you  think  he 
games  at  all?" 

"I  think  he  makes  bets."  Mr.  Harthouse 
waiting,  as  if  that  were  not  her  whole  answer, 
she  added,  "I  know  he  does." 

"Of  course  he  loses?" 

"Yes." 

"Everybody  loses  who  bets.  May  I  hint  at 
the  probability  of  your  sometimes  supplying 
him  with  money  for  these  purposes?" 

She  sat,  looking  down;  but,  at  this  ques- 
tion, raised  her  eyes  searchingly  and  a  little 
resentfully. 

"Acquit  me  of  impertinent  curiosity,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Bounderby.  I  think  Tom  may  be 
gradually  falling  into  trouble,  and  I  wish  to 
stretch  out  a  helping  hand  to  him  from  the 
depths  of  my  wicked  experience.  Shall  I  say 
again,  for  his  sake?     Is  that  necessary?" 

She  seemed  to  try  to  answer,  but  nothing 
came  of  it. 

"Candidly  to  confess  every  thing  that  has 
occurred  to  me,"  said  James  Harti;ouse,  again 
gliding  with  the  same  appearance  of  effort  into 


his  more  airy  manner;  "I  will  confide  to  you 
my  doubt  whether  he  has  had  many  advantages. 
Whether — forgive  my  plainness— whether  any 
great  amount  of  confidence  is  likely  to  have 
been  established  between  himself  and  his  most 
worthy  father." 

"I  do  not,"  said  Louisa,  flushing  with  her 
own  great  remembrance  in  that  wise,  "think  it 
likely." 

"Or,  between  himself,  and — I  may  trust  to 
your  perfect  understanding  of  my  meaning  I 
am  sure — and  his  highly  esteemed  brother-in- 
law." 

She  flushed  deeper  and  deeper,  and  was 
burning  red  when  she  replied  in  a  fainter 
voice,  "I  do  not  think  that  likely,  either." 

"Mrs.  Bounderby,"  said  Harthouse,  after  a 
short  silence,  "may  there  be  a  better  confidence 
between  yourself  and  me?  Tomhas  borrowed 
a  considerable  sura  of  you?" 

"You  will  understand,  Mr.  Harthouse," 
she  returned,  after  some  indecision  :  she  had 
been  more  or  less  uncertain,  and  troubled 
throughout  the  conversation,  and  yet  had  in 
the  main  preserved  her  selfcontained  man- 
ner: "you  will  understand  that  if  I  tell  you 
what  you  press  to  know,  it  is  not  by  wav  of 
complaint  or  regret.  I  would  never  complain 
of  anything,  and  what  I  have  done  I  do  not  in 
the  least  regret." 

"So  spirited,  too!"  thought  James  Hart- 
house. 

"When  I  married,  I  found  that  my  brother 
was  even  at  that  time  heavily  in  debt.  Hea^'-'y 
for  him,  I  mean.  Heavily  enough  to  oblige 
me  to  sell  some  trinkets.  They  were  no  sacri- 
fice. I  sold  them  very  willingly.  I  attached 
no  value  to  them.  They  were  quite  worthless 
to  me." 

Either  she  saw  in  his  face  that  he  knew,  or 
she  only  feared  in  her  conscience  that  he  knew, 
that  she  spoke  of  some  of  her  husband's  gifts. 
She  stopped,  and  reddened  again.  If  he  had 
not  known  it  before,  he  would  have  known  it 
then,  though  he  had  been  a  much  duller  man 
than  he  was. 

"Since  then,  I  have  given  my  brother,  at 
various  times,  what  money  I  could  spare :  in 
short,  what  money  I  have  had.  Confiding  in 
you  at  all,  on  the  fiiith  of  the  interest  you  pro- 
fess for  him,  I  will  not  do  so  by  halves.  Since 
you  have  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  here,  he 
has  wanted  in  one  sum  as  much  as  a  hundred 
pounds.  I  have  not  been  able  to  give  it  to 
him.  I  have  felt  uneasy  for  the  consequences  of 
his  being  so  involved,  but  I  have  kept  these  se- 
crets untilnow,when  Itrust  them  to  your  honor. 
I  have  held  no  confidence  with  any  one,  because 
— you  anticipated  my  reason  just  now."  She 
abruptly  broke  off 

He  was  a  ready  man,  and  he  saw,  and 
seized,  au  opportunity  here  of  presenting  her 
own  image  to  her,  slightly  disguised  as  her 
brother. 

"Mrs.  Bounderby,  though  a  graceless  person, 
of  the  world  worldly,  I  feel  the  utmost  in- 
terest, I  assure  you,  in  what  you  tell   me.     I 


144 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


eannot  possibly  be  hard  upon  your  brother.  I 
understand  and  share  the  wise  consideration 
with  which  you  rejrard  his  errors.  With  all 
possible  respect  both  for  Mr.  Gradgrind  and 
for  Mr.  Bounderby,  I  think  I  perceive  that 
he  has  not  been  fortunate  in  his  training. 
Bred  at  a  disadvantage  towards  the  society 
in  which  he  has  his  part  to  play,  he  rushes 
into  these  extremes  for  himself,  from  opposite 
extremes  that  have  long  been  forced — with  the 
very  best  intentions  we  have  no  doubt — upon 
him.  Mr.  Bounderliy's  fine  bluff  English 
independence,  though  a  most  charming 
characteristic,  does  not — as  we  have  agreed — 
invite  confidence.  If  I  might  venture  to 
remark  that  it  is  the  least  in  the  world  defi- 
cient in  that  delicacy  to  which  a  youth  mis- 
taken, a  character  misconceived,  and  abilities 
misdirected,  would  turn  for  relief  and  guid- 
ance, I  should  express  what  it  presents  to  my 
own  view." 

As  she  sat  looking  straight  before  her,  across 
the  changing  lights  upon  the  grass  into  the 
darkness  of  the  wood  beyond,  he  saw  in  her 
face  her  application  of  his  very  distinctly 
uttered  words. 

"All  allowance,"  he  continued,  "must  be 
made.  I  have  one  great  fault  to  find  with 
Tom,  however,  which  I  cannot  forgive,  and  for 
which  I  take  him  heavily  to  account." 

Louisa  turned  her  eyes  to  his  face,  and 
asked  him  what  fault  was  that  ? 

"  Perhaps,"  he  returned,  "  I  have  said 
enough.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better, 
on  the  whole,  if  no  allusion  to  it  had  escaped 
me." 

"  You  alarm  me,  Mr.  Harthouse.  Pray  let 
me  know  it." 

"To  relieve  you  from  needless  apprehension 
— and  as  this  confidence  regarding  your  brother, 
which  I  prize,  I  am  sure,  above  all  possible 
things,  has  been  established  between  us — I 
obey.  I  cannot  forgive  him  for  not  being  more 
sensible,  in  every  word,  look,  and  act  of  bis  life, 
of  the  affection  of  his  best  friend;  of  the  devo- 
tion of  his  best  friend;  of  her  unselfishness;  of 
her  sacrifice.  The  return  he  makesher,  within 
my  observation,  is  a  very  poor  one.  What  she 
has  done  for  him  demands  his  constant  love  and 
gratitude,  not  his  ill-humor  and  caprice.  Care- 
less fellow  as  I  am,  I  am  not  so  indifferent, 
Mrs.  Bounderby,  as  to  be  regardless  of  this 
vice  in  your  brother,  or  inclined  to  consider  it  a 
venial  offence." 

Tiie  wood  floated  before  her,  for  her  eyes 
were  suffused  with  tears.  They  rose  from  a 
deep  well,  long  concealed,  and  her  heart  was 
tilled  with  acute  pain  that  found  no  relief  in 
them. 

"In  a  word,  it  is  to  correct  your  brother  in 
this,  Mrs.  Bounderby,  that  I  most  aspire.  My 
better  knowledge  of  his  circumstances,  and 
my  direction  and  advice  in  extricating  him — 
rather  valuable,  I  hope,  as  coming  from  a 
scapegrace  on  a  much  larger  scale — will  give 
me  some  influence  over  him,  and  all  I  gain  I 
shall  certainly  use  towards   this   end.     I  have 


said  enough,  and  more  than  enough.  I  seem 
to  be  protesting  that  I  am  a  sort  of  good 
fellow,  when,  upon  my  honor,  I  have  not  the 
least  intention  to  make  any  protestation  to 
that  effect,  and  openly  announce  that  I  am 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Yonder,  among  the  trees," 
he  added,  having  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  looked 
about;  for  he  had  watched  her  closely  until 
now;  "is  your  brother  himself;  no  doubt, 
just  come  down.  As  he  seems  to  be  loitering 
in  this  direction,  it  may  be  as  well,  perhaps, 
to  walk  towards  him,  and  throw  ourselves  in 
his  way.  He  has  been  very  silent  and  doleful 
of  late.  Perhaps,  his  brotherly  conscience  is 
touched — if  there  are  such  things  as  con- 
sciences. Though,  upon  my  honor,  I  hear  of 
them  much  too  often  to  believe  in  them." 

He  assisted  her  to  rise,  and  she  took  his 
arm,  and  they  advanced  to  meet  the  whelp. 
He  was  idly  beating  the  branches  as  he 
lounged  along:  or  he  stopped  viciously  to  rip 
the  moss  from  the  trees  with  his  stick.  He 
was  startled  when  they  came  upon  him  while 
he  was  engaged  in  this  latter  pastime,  and  his 
color  changed. 

"Halloa  1"  he  stammered,  "I  didn't  know  you 
were  here." 

"Whose  name,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Harthouse, 
putting  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  turn- 
ing him,  so  that  they  all  three  walked  towards 
the  house  together,  "have  you  been  carving  on 
the  trees?" 

"Whose  name?"  returned  Tom.  "OhI  Yon 
mean  what  girl's  name?" 

"You  have  a  suspicious  appearance  of  in- 
scribing some  fair  creature's  on  the  bark, 
Tom." 

"Not  much  of  that,  Mr.  Harthouse,  unless 
some  fair  creature  with  a  slashing  fortune  at 
her  own  disposal  would  take  a  fancy  to  me. 
Or  she  might  be  as  ugly  as  she  was  rich,  with- 
out any  fear  of  losing  me.  I'd  carve  her 
name  as  often  as  she  liked." 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  mercenary,  Tom." 

"Mercenary,"  repeated  Tom,  "Who  is  not 
mercenary?     Ask  my  sister." 

"Have  you  so  proved  it  to  be  a  failing  of 
mine,  Tom?"  said  Louisa,  showing  no  ether 
sense  of  his  discontent  and  ill-nature. 

"You  know  whether  the  cap  fits  you.  Loo," 
returned  her  brother  sulkily.  "If  it  does,  you 
can  wear  it." 

"Tom  is  misanthropical  to  day,  as  all  bored 
people  are,  now  and  then,"  said  Mr.  Hart- 
house. "Don't  believe  him,  Mrs.  Bounderby. 
He  knows  much  better.  I  shall  disclose  some 
of  his  opinions  of  you,  privately  expressed  to 
me,  unless  he  relents  a  little." 

"At  all  events,  Mr.  Harthouse,"  said  Tom, 
softening  in  his  admiration  of  his  patron,  but 
shaking  his  head  sullenly  too,  "you  can't  tell 
her  that  I  ever  praised  her  for  being  merce- 
nary. I  may  have  praised  her  for  being  the 
contrary,  and  I  should  do  it  again  if  I  had  as 
good  reason.  However,  never  mind  this  now; 
it's  not  very  interesting  to  you,  and  I  am  sick 
of  the  subject." 


HARD  TIMES. 


145 


They  walked  on  to  the  house,  where  Lonisa 
quitted  hervisiter's  anu  and  went  in.  He  stbod 
looking  after  her,  as  she  ascended  the  steps, 
and  passed  into  the  shadow  of  the  door;  then 
put  his  hand  upon  her  brothers  shoulder  again, 
and  invited  him  with  a  confidential  nod  to  a 
walk  in  the  garden. 

"Tom,  my  fine  fellow,  I  want  to  have  a  word 
with  you." 

They  had  stopped  among  a  disorder  of  roses 
— it  was  part  of  Mr.  Bounderby's  humility  to 
keep  Nickit's  roses  on  a  reduced  scale — and 
Tom  sat  down  on  a  terrace-parapet,  plucking 
buds  and  picking  them  to  pieces;  while  his 
powerful  Familiar  stood  over  him,  with  a  foot 
upon  the  parapet,  and  his  figure  easily  resting 
on  the  arm  supported  by  that  knee.  They  were 
just  visible  from  her  window.  Perhaps  she 
saw  them. 

"Tom,  what's  the  matter?" 

"Oh  1  Mr.  Harthouse,"  said  Tom,  with  a 
groan,  "I  am  hard  up,  and  bothered  out  of 
my  life." 

"My  good  fellow,  so  am  I." 

"You!"  returned  Tom.  "You  are- the  pic- 
ture of  independence.  Mr.  Harthout^e,  I  am 
in  a  horrible  mess.  Yoti  have  no  idea  what  a 
state  I  have  got  myself  into — what  a  state  my 
sister  miwht  have  got  me  out  of,  if  she  would 
only  have  done  it." 

He  took  to  biting  the  rose  buds  now,  and 
tearing  them  away  from  his  teeth  with  a  hand 
that  trembled  like  an  infirm  old  man's.  After 
one  exceedingly  observant  look  at  him,  his 
companion  relapsed  into  his  liuhtest  air. 

"Tom,  you  are  inconsiderate;  you  expect 
too  much  of  your  sister.  You  have  had  money 
of  her,  you  dog,  you  know  you  have." 

"Well,  Mr.  Harthouse,  1  know  I  have. — 
How  else  was  I  to  get  it?  Here's  old  Ijoiui- 
derby  always  boasting  that  at  my  age  he  lived 
upon  two-pence  a  month,  or  something  of  that 
sort.  Here's  my  father  drawing  what  he  calls 
a  line,  and  tying  me  down  to  it  from  a  bahyj 
neck  and  heels.  Here's  my  mother,  who  never 
has  anything  of  her  own,  except  her  com- 
plaints. What  is  a  fellow  to  do  for  money, 
and  where  am  I  to  look  for  it,  if  not  to  my 
sister!" 

He  was  almost  crying,  and  scattered  the 
buds  about  by  dozens.  Mr.  Harthouse  took 
him  persuasively  by  the  c<^at. 

"But  my  dear  Tom,  if  your  sister  has  not 
got  it—" 

"Not  got  it,  Mr.  Harthouse?  I  don't  say 
she  has  got  it.  I  may  have  wanted  more  than 
she  was  likely  to  have  got.  But  then  she 
ought  to  get  it.  She  could  get  it.  It's  of  no 
use  pretending  to  make  a  secret  of  matters 
now,  after  what  I  have  told  you  already;  you 
know  she  didn't  marry  old  Bounde  by  for  her 
own  sake,  or  for  his  sake,  but  for  my  sake. 
Then  why  doesn't  she  get  what  I  want,  out  of 
liim,  for  my  sake?  She  is  not  obliged  to  say 
A'hat  she  is  going  to  do  with  it;  she  is  sharp 
enough  ;  she  could  manage  to  coax  it  out  of 
him,  if  .she  chose.  Then  why  doesn't  she 
10 


choose,  when  I  tell  her  of  what  consequence  it 
is?  But  no.  There  she  sits  in  his  company 
like  a  stone,  instead  of  making  herself  agreea- 
ble and  getting  it  easily.  I  do  't  know  what 
you  may  call  this,  but  I  call  it  unnatural  con- 
duct." 

Tiiere  was  a  piece  of  ornamental  water  im- 
mediately below  the  parapet,  on  lh°  other  side, 
into  which  Mr.  James  Harthouse  had  a  very 
strong  inclination  to  pitch  Mr.  Thomas  Grad- 
grind.  Junior,  as  the  injured  men  of  Coketown 
threatened  to  pitch  their  property  into  the  - 1- 
laritic.  But  he  preserved  his  easy  attitude; 
and  nothing  more  solid  went  over  the  stone 
balustrades  than  the  accumulated  rosebuds 
now  Hoating  about,  a  little  surface-island. 

"My  dear  Tom,"  said  Harthouse,  "let  me  try 
to  be  your  banker." 

"For  God's  sake,"  replied  Tom,  suddenly, 
"don't  talk  about  banker.'?!''  And  very  white 
he  looked,  in  contrast  with  the  roses.  Very 
white. 

Mr.  Harthouse,  as  a  thoroughly  well  bred 
man,  accustomed  to  the  best  society,  was  not 
to  be  surprised — he  could  as  soon  have  been 
affected — but  he  raised  his  eyelids  a  little 
more,  as  if  they  were  lif'ed  by  a  feeble  touch 
of  wonder.  Albeit  it  was  as  much  against 
the  precepts  of  his  school  to  wonder,  as  it 
was  against  the  doctrines  of  the  Giadgrind 
College. 

"  W^hat  is  the  present  need,  Tom  ?  Three 
figures  ?  Out  with  them.  Say  what  they 
are." 

"  Mr.  Harthouse,"  returned  Tom,  now  ac- 
tually crying ;  and  his  tears  were  better  than 
his  injuries,  however  pitiful  a  figure  he  made  ; 
"  it's  too  late  ;  the  money  is  of  no  use  to  me 
at  present.  I  should  have  had  it  before,  to  be 
of  use  to  me.  But  1  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you  ;  you're  a  true  friend." 

A  true  friend  I  "Whelp,  whelp  1 "  thought 
Mr.  Harthouse,  lazily;  "what  an  Ass  you 
are  ! " 

"And  I  take  your  offer  as  a  great  kind- 
ness," said  Toin,  grasping  his  hand.  "  As  a 
great  kindne.<s,  Mr.  Harthouse.' 

"Well,"  returned  the  other,  "it  may  be  of 
more  use  by  and  by.  And,  my  good  fellow, 
if  you  will  open  your  bedevilnients  to  me  when 
they  come  thick  upon  you,  I  may  show  you 
better  ways  out  of  them  than  you  can  find  for 
yourself" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tom,  shaking  his  head 
dismally,  and  chewing  ro.sebuds.  "1  wish  I 
had  known  you  sooner,  Mr.  Harthouse." 

"Now,  you  see,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Harthouse 
in  conclusion;  himself  tossing  over  a  rose  ur 
two,  as  a  contribution  to  the  island,  which  was 
always  drifting  to  the  wall  as  if  it  wanted  to 
become  a  part  of  the  mainland;  "every  man  is 
selfi>li  in  everything  he  does,  and  I  am  exactly 
like  the  re.st  of  my  fellow  creatures.  1  am 
desperately  intent;"  the  languor  of  his  despera 
tion  being  quite  tropical;  "on  your  softening 
towards  your  sister — which  you  ought  to  do; 


146 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


and  on  your  being  a  more  loving  and  agreea- 
ble sort  of  brother — whirh  you  ought  to  be." 

"I  will  be,  Mr.  Harthouse." 

"No  time  like  the  present,  Tom.  Begin  at 
once." 

"Certainly  I  will.  And  my  sister  Loo  shall 
say  so." 

"Having  made  which  bargain,  Tom,"  said 
Harthouse,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder  again, 
with  an  air  which  left  him  at  liberty  to  infer — 
as  he  did,  poor  fool — that  this  condition  was 
imposed  upon  him  in  mere  careless  good  nature, 
to  lessen  his  sense  of  obligation,  "we  will  tear 
ourselves  asunder  until  dinner-time." 

When  Tom  appeared  before  dinner,  though 
his  mind  seemed  heavy  enough,  his  body  was 
on  the  alert;  and  he  appeared  before  Mr.  Boun- 
derby  came  in.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  cross. 
Loo,"  he  said,  giving  her  his  hand,  and  kissing 
her.  "I  know  you  are  fond  of  me,  and  you 
know  I  am  fond  of  you." 

After  this,  there  was  a  smile  upon  Louisa's 
face  that  day,  for  some  one  else.  Alas,  for 
some  one  else ! 

"  So  much  the  less  is  the  whelp  the  only 
creature  that  she  cares  for,"  thought  James 
Harthouse,  reversing  the  reflection  of  his  first 
day's  knowledge  of  her  pretty  face.  "  So 
much  the  less,  so  much  the  less." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  next  morning  was  too  bright  a  morning 
for  sleep,  and  James  Harthouse  rose  e  rly,  and 
sat  in  the  pleasant  bay  window  of  his  dress- 
ing-room, smoking  the  rare  tobacco  that  had 
had  so  wholesome  an  influence  on  his  young 
friend.    Reposing  in  the  sunlight,  with  the  fra- 

f  ranee  of  his  eastern  pipe  about  him,  and  the 
reamy  smoke  vanishing  into  the  air,  so  rich 
and  soft  with  summer  odors,  he  reckoned  up 
his  advantages  as  an  idle  winner  might  count 
his  gains.  He  was  not  at  all  bored  for  the 
time,  and  could  give  his  mind  to  it. 

He  had  established  a  confidence  with  her, 
from  which  her  husband  was  excluded.  He 
had  established  a  confidence  with  her,  that  ab- 
solutely turned  upon  her  indifference  towards 
her  husband,  and  the  absence,  now  and  at  all 
times,  of  any  congeniality  between  them.  He 
had  artfully,  but  plainly  assured  her,  that  he 
knew  her  heart  in  its  last  most  delicate  recess- 
es; he  had  come  so  near  to  her  through  its  ten- 
derest  sentiment;  he  had  associated  himse'f 
with  that  feeling;  and  the  barrier  behind  which 
she  lived,  had  melted  away.  All  very  odd,  and 
very  satisfactory! 

And  yet  he  had  not,  even  now,  any  earnest 
wickedness  of  purpose  in  him.  Publicly  and 
privately,  it  were  much  better  for  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  that  he  and  the  legion  of  whom 
he  was  one  were  designedly  bad,  than  indiffer- 
ent and  purposeless.  It  is  the  dritiing  icebergs 
setting  with  auy  current  anywhere,  that  wreck 
the  ships. 

When  the  Devil  goetli  about  like  a  roaring 
lion,  he  goeth  about  in  a  shape  by  which  few 


but  savages  and  hunters  are  attracted.  But, 
when  he  is  trimmed,  varnished,  and  polished, 
according  to  the  mode;  when  he  is  aweary  of 
vice,  and  aweary  of  virtue,  used  up  as  to  brim- 
stone, and  used  up  as  to  bliss;  then,  whether 
he  take  to  the  serving  out  of  red  tape,  or  to 
the  kindling  of  red  fire,  he  is    the  very  Devil. 

So,  James  Harthouse  reclined  in  the  window, 
iiulolently  smoking,  and  reckoning  up  the 
steps  he  had  taken  on  the  road  by  which  he 
happened  to  be  travelling.  The  end  to  which 
it  led  was  before  him,  pretty  plainly  ;  but  he 
troubled  hiu  self  with  no  calculations  about  it. 
What  will  be,  will  be. 

As  he  had  rather  a  long  ride  to  take  that  day 
— for  there  was  a  public  occasion  "  to  do  ''  at 
some  distancf,  which  afforded  a  tolerable  op- 
portunity of  going  in  for  the  Gradgrind  men — 
he  dressed  early,  and  went  down  to  breakfaot 
He  was  anxious  to  see  if  she  had  relapsed  since 
the  previous  evening.  No.  He  resumed  where 
he  had  left  off.  There  was  a  look  of  interest 
for  him  again. 

He  got  through  the  day  as  much  (or  as 
little)  to  his  own  satisfaction,  as  was  to  be 
expected  under  the  fatiguing  circumstances; 
and  came  riding  back  at  six  o'clock.  There 
was  a  sweep  of  some  half  mile  between  the 
lodge  and  the  house,  and  he  was  riding  along 
at  a  foot's  pace  over  the  smooth  gravel,  once 
Nickit's,  when  Mr.  Bounderby  burst  out  of  the 
shrubbery  with  such  violence  as  to  make  his 
horse  shy  across  the  road. 

"Harthouse!"  cried  Mr.  Bounderby.  "Have 
you  heard?" 

"Heard  what?"  said  Harthouse,  soothing  his 
horse,  and  inwardly  favoring  Mr.  Bounderby 
with  no  good  wishes. 

"Then  you  haveriH  heard!" 

"I  have  heard  you,  and  so  has  this  brute. — 
I  have  heard  nothing  else." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  red  and  hot,  planted  himself 
in  the  centre  of  the  path  before  the  horse's 
head,  to  explode  his  bombshell  with  more  ef- 
fect. 

"The  Bank's  robbed  1" 

"You  don't  mean  it!" 

"Robbed  last  night,  sir.  Bobbed  in  an 
extraordinary  manner.  Robbed  with  a  false 
key." 

"Of  much  ?" 

Mr.  Bounderby,  in  his  desire  to  make  the 
most  of  it,  really  seemed  mortified  by  being 
obliged  to  reply.  "Why,  no;  not  of  very  much. 
But  it  might  have  been." 

"Of  how  much?" 

"Oh  1  as  a  sum — if  you  stick  to  a  sum — of 
not  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  pound," 
said  Bounderby,  with  impatience.  "But  it's 
not  the  sura ;  it's  the  fact.  It's  the  fact  of 
the  Bank  being  robbed,  that's  the  important 
circumstance.  I  am  surprised  you  don't 
see  it." 

"My  dear  Bounderby,"  said  James,  dis- 
mounting, and  giving  his  bridle  to  his  servant, 
"  I  do  see  it ;  and  am  as  overcome  as  you  can 
possibly  desire  me  to   be,   by    the    spectacle 


HARD  TIMES. 


147 


afforded  to  my  mental  view.  Nevertheless, 
1  may  be  allowed,  I  hope,  to  congratulate  you 
— which  I  do  with  all  my  soul,  I  assure  you 
— on  your  not  having  sustained  a  greater 
loss  " 

'*  Thank'ee,"  replied  Bounderby,  in  a  short, 
ungracious  manner.  "  But  I  tell  you  what. 
It  might  have  been  twenty  thousand  pound." 

"I  suppose  it  might." 

'"Suppose  it  might?  By  the  Lord,  you  maij 
suppose  so.  By  George!"  said  Mr.  Bounder- 
bv,  with  sundry  menacing  nods  and  shakes  of 
his  head,  "It  might  have  been  twice  twenty. 
There's  no  knowing  what  it  would  have  been, 
or  wouldn't  have  been,  as  it  was,  but  tor  thi 
fellows'  being  disturbed." 

Louisa  had  come  up  now,  and  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
and  Bitzer. 

■'Here's  Tom  Gradgrind's  daughter  knows 
pretty  well  what  it  might  have  been,  if  you 
duii't,"  blustered  Bounderby.  "Dropped,  sir, 
as  if  she  was  shot,  when  I  told  her !  Never 
knew  her  do  such  a  thing  before.  Does  her 
credit,  under  the  circumstances, in  my  opinion." 

She  still  looked  faint  and  pale.  James 
Harthouse  begged  her  to  take  his  arm;  and  as 
they  moved  on  very  slowly,  asked  how  the  rob- 
bery had  been  committed. 

"Why,  I  am  going  to  tell  you,"  said  Boun- 
derby, irritably  giving  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Sparsit. 
"If  you  hadn't  been  so  mighty  particular  about 
the  sum,  I  should  have  begun  to  tell  you  be 
fore.  You  know  this  lady  (for  she  is  a  lady), 
Mrs.  Sparsit?"' 

"I  have  already  had  the  honor'' — 

"Very  well.  And  this  young  man,  Bitzer, 
you  saw  him  too  on  the  same  occasion?"  Mr. 
Harthouse  inclined  his  head  in  assent,  and 
Bitzer  knuckled  his  forehead. 

"Very  well.  They  live  at  the  Bank.  You 
know  they  live  at  the  Bank  perhaps?  Very 
well.  Yesterday  afternoon,  at  the  close  of 
business  hours,  everything  was  put  away  as 
usual.  In  the  iron  room  that  this  young  fel- 
low sleeps  outside  of,  there  was — ne%'er  mind 
how  much.  In  the  little  safe  in  young  Tom's 
closet,  the  safe  used  for  petty  purposes,  there 
was  a  hundred  and  fitty  odd  pound." 

"Hundred  and  fifty-four,  seven,  one,"  said 
Bitzer. 

"Come !"  retorted  Bounderby,  stopping  to 
wheel  round  upon  him,  "let's  have  none  of 
your  interruptions.  It's  enough  to  be  robbed 
while  you're  snoring  because  you're  too  com- 
fortable, without  being  put  right  with  your  four 
seven  ones.  I  didn't  snore,  myself,  when  I 
was  vour  age,  let  me  tell  you.  I  hadn't  victuals 
enough  to  snore.  And  I  didn't  four  seven  one. 
Not  if  I  knew  it." 

Bitzer  knuckled  his  forehead  again,  in  a 
sneaking  manner,  and  seemed  at  once  par- 
ticularly impressed  and  depressed  by  the 
instance  last  given  of  Mr.  Bouuderby's  moral 
abstinence. 

"A  hundred  and  fifty  odd  pound,"  resumed 
Mr.  Bounderby.  "That  sum  of  money,  young 
Tom  locked  in  his  safe;  not  a  very  strong  sa!e, 


but  that's  no  matter  now.  Everything  was  left, 
all  right.  Some  time  in  the  night,  while  this 
young  fellow  snored — Mrs.  Sparsit,  ma'am, you 
say  you  have  heard  him  snore  ?" 

'  Sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "I  cannot  say 
that  I  have  heard  him  precisely  snore,  and 
therefore  must  not  make  that  statement. 
But  on  winter  evenings,  when  he  has  fallen 
asleep  at  his  table,  I  have  heard  him,  what  I 
should  prefer  to  describe  as  partially  choke. 
I  have  heard  him  on  such  occasions  produce 
sounds  of  a  nature  similar  to  what  may  be 
sometimes  heard  in  Dutch  clocks.  Kot," 
said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a  lofty  sense  of  giving 
strict  evidence,  "that  I  would  convey  any  im- 
putation on  his  moral  character.  Far  from  it. 
I  have  always  considered  Bitzer  a  young  man 
of  the  most  upright  principle;  and  to  that  I 
beg  to  bear  my  testimony. 

"Well!"  said  the  exasperated  Bounderby, 
"while  he  was  snoring,  or  choking,  or  Dutch- 
clocking,  or  something  or  other — being  asleep 
— some  fellows,  somehow  whether  previously 
concealed  in  the  house  or  not  remains  to  be 
seen,  got  to  young  Tom's  safe,  forced  it,  and 
abstracted  the  contents.  Being  then  dis- 
turbed, they  made  off;  letting  themselves  out 
at  the  main  door,  and  double-locking  it  again 
(it  was  double-locked,  and  the  key  under  Mrs. 
Sparsit's  pillow)  with  a  false  key,  which  was 
picked  up  in  the  street  near  the  Bank,  about 
twelve  o'clock  to-day.  No  alarm  takes  place, 
till  this  chap,  Bitzer,  turns  out  this  morning 
and  begins  to  open  and  prepare  the  ofiBces  for 
business.  Then,  lookingat  Tom's  safe,  he  sees 
the  door  ajar,  and  finds  the  lock  forced,  and 
the  money  gone." 

"Where  is  Tom,  by  the  by?"  asked  Hart- 
house, glancing  round. 

"He  has  beenhelping  the  police,"  said  Boun- 
derby, "and  stays  behind  at  the  Bank.  I  wish 
these  fellows  had  tried  to  rob  me  when  I  was  at 
his  time  of  life.  They  would  have  been  out  ol 
pockes  if  they  had  invested  eighteen  pence  in 
the  job;  I  can  tell  'em  that." 

"Is  anybody  suspected?" 

"  Suspected  ?  I  should  think  there  was 
somebody  suspected.  Egod  !"  said  Bounderbv, 
relinquishing  Mrs.  Sparsit's  arm  to  wipe  his 
heated  head,  "  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown 
is  not  to  be  plundered  and  nobody  suspected. 
No,  thank  you !" 

Might  Mr.  Harthouse  inquire  Who  was  sus- 
pected? 

"  Well,"  said  Bounderby,  stopping  and 
facing  about  to  confront  them  all,  "  I'll  tell 
you.  It's  not  to  be  mentioned  everywhere; 
it's  not  to  be  mentioned  anywhere  ;  hi  order 
that  the  scoundrels  concerned  (there's  a  gang 
of 'em)  may  be  thrown  off  their  guard.  So 
take  this  in  confidence.  Now  wait  a  bit.'' 
Mr.  Bounderby  wiped  his  head  again.  "What 
should  you  say  ♦o;"  here  he  violently  exploded, 
"to  a  Hand  being  in  it?'' 

"  I  hope."  said  Harthjuse,  lazily,  "  not  our 
t'rieiid  Blackpot'f 


148 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


"  Say  Pool  instead  of  Pot,  sir,"  returned 
Bouuderby,  "and  that's  the  man." 

Louisa  faintly  uttered  some  word  of  incre- 
dulity and  surprise. 

"  0  yes  1  I  know  !"  said  Bounderby,  imme- 
diately catching  at  the  sound.  *'  I  know  1 
I  am  used  to  thatl  I  know  ail  about  it. 
They  are  the  finest  people  in  tJie  world,  these 
fellows  are.  They  have  ^'ot  the  gill  of  the  gab, 
they  have.  They  only  want  to  have  their 
rights  explained  to  them,  they  do.  But  1  tell 
you  what.  Show  me  a  dissatisfied  Hand,  and 
I'll  show  you  a  man  that's  fit  for  anything  bad, 
I  don't  care  what  it  is." 

Another  of  the  popular  fictions  of  Coke- 
town,  which  some  pains  had  been  taken  to 
disseminate — and  which  some  people  really 
believed. 

"  But  I  am  acquainted  Avith  these  chaps," 
said  Bounderby.  '*  I  can  read  'em  oH,  like 
books.  Mrs.  Sparsit,  ma'am,  1  appeal  to  you. 
What  warning  did  I  give  that  fellow,  the  first 
time  he  set  foot  in  the  house,  when  the  express 
object  of  his  visit  was  to  know  how  he  could 
knock  Religion  over,  and  floor  the  Established 
Church?  Mrs.  Sparsit,  in  point  of  high  con- 
nexions, you  are  on  a  level  with  the  aristo- 
cracy,— did  1  say,  or  did  1  not  say,  to  that 
fellow,  'you  can't  hide  the  truth  from  me; 
jou  are  not  the  kind  of  fellow  1  like;  you'll 
come  to  no  good  ?'  " 

■'Assuredly,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "you 
did,  in  a  highly  impressive  manner,  give  him 
such  an  admonition." 

"When  he  shocked  you,  ma'am,"  said 
Bounderby;  "when  he  shocked  your  feelings?" 
''Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  with  a 
meek  shake  of  her  head,  "he  certainly  did  so. 
Though  1  do  not  mean  to  say  but  that  my  feel 
ings  may  be  weaker  on  such  points — more 
foolish,  if  the  term  is  preferred — than  they 
might  have  been,  if  I  had  always  occujiied  my 
present  position." 

Mr.  Bounderby  stared  with  a  bursting  pride 
at  Mr.  Harthouse,  as  much  as  to  say,  "1  am 
the  proprietor  of  this  female,  and  she's  worth 
your  attention,  I  think  ?"  Then,  resumed  his 
discourse. 

"You  can  recall  for  yourself,  Harthouse, 
what  I  said  to  him  when  you  saw  him.  1 
didn't  mince  the  matter  with  him.  I  am 
never  mealy  with  'em.  I  know  'em.  Very 
well,  sir.  Three  days  after  that,  he  bolted. 
\\ent  off,  nobody  knows  where:  as  my  mother 
did  in  rny  infancy— only  wiih  this  difference, 
that  he  is  a  worse  subject  than  my  mother, 
if  possible.  What  did  he  do  befbie  he  went  ? 
What  do  you  say;"  Mr.  Bounderby,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  gave  a  Leal  u{)ou  the 
crown  at  every  little  division  of  his  sentences, 
as  if  it  were  a  tamliourine;  "to  his  being 
seen— night  after  night— watching  the  Bank? 
—To  his  lurking  about  thf-re — atler  dark? — 
lo  its  striking  Mrs.  i^parsit— that  he  could 
be  lurking  for  no  good? — To  her  calling  Bitzer's 
attention  to  him,  and  their  both  taking  notice 
of  him? — And    to    its    appearing  on  nnjuiry 


to-day — that  he  was  also  noticed  by  the  neigh- 
bors?" Having  come  to  the  climax,  Mr. 
Bounderby,  like  an  oriental  dancer,  put  his 
tambourine  on  his  head. 

''Suspicious,"  said  James  Harthouse,  "cer- 
tainly." 

"  1  think  so,  sir,"  said  Bounderby,  with  a 
defiant  nod.  "  1  think  so.  But  there  are 
more  of  'em  in  it.  There's  an  old  woman. 
One  never  hears  of  thtse  things  till  the  mis- 
chief's done  ;  all  sorts  of  defects  are  found 
out  in  the  stable  door  after  the  horse  is 
stolen  ;  there's  an  old  woman  turns  up  now. 
An  old  woman  who  seems  to  have  besn  flying 
into  town  on  a  broomstick,  every  now  and 
then,  i^he  watches  the  piace  a  whole  day 
before  this  fellow  begins,  and,  on  the  night 
when  you  saw  him,  she  steals  away  with  him 
and  holds  a  council  with  him — I  suppose,  to 
make  her  report  on  going  off  duty,  and  be 
d— d  to  her." 

There  was  such  a  person  in  the  room  that 
night,  and  she  shrunk  from  observat  on, 
thought  Louisa. 

"  This  is  not  all  of  'em,  even  as  we  already 
know  'em,"  said  Bounderby,  with  many  nods 
of  hidden  meaning.  "  But  I  have  said 
enough  for  the  present.  You'll  have  the 
goodness  to  keep  it  quiet,  and  mention  it  to 
no  one.  It  may  take  time,  but  we  shall  have 
'em.  It's  policy  to  give  'em  line  enough,  and 
there's  no  olijection  to  that." 

"Of  course,  they  will  be  punishfd  with  the 
utmost  rigor  of  the  law,  as  iiotice-boaids  ob- 
serve," replied  James  Harthouse,  "  and  serve 
them  right.  Fellows  who  go  in  for  Banks 
must  take  the  consequences.  If  there  were 
no  consequences,  we  should  all  go  in  for 
Banks."  He  had  gently  taken  Louiba's  para- 
sol from  her  hand,  and  kad  put  it  up  for  her ; 
and  she  walked  under  its  shade,  though  the 
sun  did  not  shine  there. 

"For  the  present.  Loo  Bounderby,"  said  her 
husband,  "here's  Mrs.  Sparsit  to  look  after. 
Mrs.  Sparsit's  nerves  have  been  acted  upou  by 
this  business,  and  she'll  stay  here  a  day  or  two. 
So  make  her  comfortable." 

"Ihank  you  very  much,  sir,"  that  discreet 
lady  observed,"  but  pray  do  not  let  My  com- 
fort be  a  consideration.  Anything  will  do  for 
Me." 

It  soon  appeared  that  if  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  a 
failing  in  her  association  with  that  domestic 
establishment,  it  was  that  she  was  so  exces- 
sively regardless  of  herself  and  regardful  of 
others,  as  to  be  a  nuisance.  On  being  shown 
her  chamber,  she  was  so  dreadfully  sensible 
of  its  comforts  as  to  suggest  the  iniierence 
that  she  would  have  preferred  to  pass  the 
night  on  the  mangle  in  the  laundry.  True, 
the  Powlers  and  the  Scadgerses  were  accus- 
tomed to  splendor,  "but  it  is  my  duty  to 
remember,"  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  fond  of  observ- 
ing with  a  lofiy  grace  :  particularly  when  any 
of  the  domestics  were  present,  "that  whai  1 
was,  I  am  no  longer.  Indeed,"  said  she, 
"  if  I   could    altogether    cancel    the    remem- 


HARD  TIMES. 


149 


brance  that  Mr.  Sparsit  was  a  Powler,  or 
that  I  myself  am  related  to  the  Scadgers 
family  ;  or  if  I  could  even  revoke  the  lact, 
and  make  myself  a  person  of  common 
descent  and  ordinary  connexions ;  I  would 
gladly  do  so.  I  should  think  it,  under  exist- 
ing circumstances,  right  to  do  so.''  The  same 
Hermitical  state  of  mind  led  to  her  renuncia- 
tion of  made  dishes  and  wines  at  dinner, 
until  fairly  commanded  by  Mr.  Bounderby 
to  take  tbem  ;  when  she  said,  "  Indeed,  you 
are  very  good,  sir ; "  and  departed  from  a 
resolution  of  which  she  had  made  rather 
fiirmal  and  public  announcement,  to  "wait for 
the  simple  mutton."  t!he  was  likewise  deeply 
apologetic  for  wanting  the  salt ;  and,  feeling 
amiably  bound  to  bear  out  Mr.  Bounderby 
to  the  fullest  extent  in  the  testimony  he  had 
borne  to  her  nerves,  occasionally  sat  back 
in  her  chair  and  silently  wept  ;  at  which 
peiiods  a  tear  of  large  dimensions,  like  a 
crystal  ear-ring,  might  be  observed  (orrathei, 
miist  be,  for  it  insisted  on  public  notice) 
sliding  down  her  Roman  nose. 

But  Mrs.  Sparsit's  greatest  point,  first  and 
last,  was  her  determination  to  pity  Mr.  Boun- 
derby. There  were  occasions  when  in 
lookm?  at  him  she  was  involuntarily  moved 
to  shake  her  head,  a''  who  should  say  "Alas ! 
poiT  Yorick !"'  After  allowing  herself  to  be 
betrayed  into  these  evidences  of  emotion,  she 
would  force  a  lambent  brightness,  and  would 
be  fitfully  cheertul,  and  would  say,  "You 
have  still  good  spirits,  sir,  I  am  thankful  to 
find  ;"'  and  would  iippear  lo  hail  it  as  a  blessed 
dispensation  that  Mr.  Bounderby  bore  up  as 
he  did.  One  "diosynerasv  for  which  she 
often  apologised,  she  tuund  it  excessively 
dniicLill  to  conquer.  She  had  a  curious  pro- 
pensity to  call  Mrs.  Bounderby  "MissGrad- 
grind,"  and  yielded  to  it  some  three  or  four 
score  times  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  Her 
repetiti(ju  of  this  mistake  covered  Mrs. 
Sparsit  with  modest  confusion;  but  indeed,  she 
said,  it  seemed  so  natural  to  say  Miss  Grad- 
grind  :  wht  reas,  to  persuade  herself  that  the 
young  lady  whom  she  had  had  the  hap[)iness 
of  knijwiug  from  a  child  could  l>e  really  and 
truly  Mrs.  Bounderby,  she  found  almost  im- 
possible. It  was  a  further  singularity  of  this 
remarkable  case,  that  the  more  she  thought 
ahoui  it,  the  more  impossible  it  appeured;  "the 
differerices,'  she  observed,  "being  such — " 

In  the  drawing-room  after  dinner,  Mr 
Bounderby  tried  the  case  of  the  robbery, 
examined  the  witnesses,  made  notes  of  the 
evidence,  found  the  suspected  persons  guilty, 
and  >entenced  them  to  the  extreme  punish- 
ment of  the  law.  That  d(jne,  Bitzt-r  was  dis- 
missed to  town  with  instructions  to  recom- 
mend Tom  to  come  home  l)y  the  mail-train. 

When  candles  were  broui'ht,  Mrs.  Sparsit 
murmured,  "  Don't  be  low,  sir.  Pray  hi  me 
see  yo  I  cli--erful,  sir,  as  I  u-ed  to  do."'  Mr. 
Bounderby,  upon  whom  these  cimsolations 
bad  bfjiuu  to  produce  the  ettect  of  making 
him,  in  a    bull-headed,  blundering  way,  sen- 


timental, sighed  like  some  large  sea-animal. 
"  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  so,  sir,"  said 
Mrs.  Sparsit.  "  Try  a  hand  at  backgammon, 
sir,  as  you  used  to  do  when  I  had  the  honor 
of  living  under  your  roof."  "I  haven't  played 
backgammon,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby, 
"since  that  time."  "No,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  soothingly,  "  I  am  aware  that  you 
have  not.  I  remember  that  Miss  (jradgriud 
takes  no  interest  in  the  game.  But  1  shall  be 
happy,  sir,  if  you  will  condescend." 

They  played  near  a  window,  opening  on  the 
garden.  It  was  a  fine  night;  not  moonlif.'ht, 
but  sultry  and  fragrant.  Louisa  and  Mr. 
harthouse  strolled  out  into  the  garden,  where 
their  voices  could  be  heard  in  the  stillness, 
though  not  what  they  said.  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
from  her  place  at  the  backgammon  board,  was 
constantly  straining  her  eyes  to  pierce  the 
shadows  without.  "What's  the  matter,  nia'am?"' 
said  Mr.  Bounderby;  "you  don't  see  a  fire, 
do  you  ?"  "  Oh  dear  no,  sir,"  returned  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  "I  was  thinking  of  the  dew.''  "What 
have  you  got  to  do  with  the  dew,  ma'am  V 
said  Mr.  Bounderby.  "It's  not  myself,  sir," 
returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  1  am  fearful  of  Miss 
Gradgrind's  taking  cold."  "She  never  takes 
cold,"  said  Mr.  Bounderby.  "Really  sir?"' 
said  Mrs.  Sparsit.  And  was  affected  with  a 
cou)ih  in  her  throat. 

When  the  time  drew  near  for  retiring,  Mr. 
BounderVjy  took  a  glass  of  water.  "Oh,  sir !" 
said  Mrs.  Sparsit.  "N(  t  your  therry  warm, 
with  lemon  peel  and  nutmeg?"'  "Why,  I  ha\e 
got  out  of  the  habit  of  taking  it  now,  ma'am,"' 
said  Mr.  Bounderby.  "The  more's  the  pit;, 
sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsii;  "you  are  losing  a.l 
your  good  old  habits.  Cheer  up.  sirl  ltMi.>-s 
Giadgrind  will  permit  me,  I  wid  offertomake 
it  for  you,  as  1  have  often  done." 

Miss  Gradj;riiid  readily  permitting  Mrs. 
Sparsit  to  do  anything  she  phased,  thai 
considerate  lady  made  the  beverHge,  and 
handed  it  to  Mr.  Bounderby.  "it  will  do 
you  good,  sir.  It  will  warm  your  heart.  It  is 
the  sort  of  thing  you  want,  and  ought  to  take, 
sir."  And  when  Mr.  Bounderby  >=aid,  "Ydi.r 
health,  ma'am!"  she  answered  with  great  let  I- 
ing,  "'1  hank  you,  sir.  The  same  to  jou,  and 
liap[)iness  also."  Finally,  she  wished  him  good 
night,  with  great  pathos;  and  Mr.  Buundeii  y 
went  to  bed,  with  a  maudlin  persuasion  ih  t 
he  had  been  crossed  in  something  tender, 
though  he  could  not,  for  his  lite,  have  men- 
tioned what  it  was. 

Long  after  Louisa  had  undressed  and 
lain  down,  she  watched  and  waited  lor  her 
brother's  coming  home.  That  could  hardly  be, 
she  knew,  until  an  hi  ur  past  mii  ni^hi;  I  ut 
in  the  country  silence,  which  did  anyihiig 
but  calm  the  trouble  of  her  thoiights,  tune 
lagged  wearily.  At  last,  when  the  darkne  s 
and  stillness  Ijad  semied  for  hours  to  thickm 
one  another,  she  heaid  the  bell  at  the  gate. 
She  felt  as  though  ehe  wuuld  have  been  ;:lad 
that  it  rang  on  until  da\light;  butitceasid, 
and  the  clicks  ol  its   last  sound    spiead  out 


150 


DICKENS'   NEW   STOFJES. 


feinter  auJ  wider  in  the  air,  and  all  was  dead 
agaiu. 

She  waited  yet  some  quarter  of  an  hour,  as 
she  judged.  Then  she  arose,  put  on  a  loose 
robe,  and  went  out  oi"  lier  room  in  the  dark, 
and  up  the  staircase  to  her  brother's  room. 
His  door  bt'itig  shut,  she  soi'lly  opened  it  and 
epoke  to  him,  approaching  his  bed  with  a 
noiseless  step. 

She  kneeled  down  beside  it,  passed  hgrarm 
over  his  neck,  and  drew  his  face  to  hers.  She 
knew  that  he  only  feigned  to  be  asleep,  but  she 
said  nothing  to  him. 

He  started  by  and  by  as  if  he  were  just  then 
awakened,  and  ask  who  that  was,  and  what 
was  the  matter  ? 

"Tom,  have  you  anything  to  tell  me?  If 
ever  you  loved  me  in  your  life,  and  have  any- 
thing concealed  from  every  one  besides,  tell  it 
to  me." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Loo.  You 
have  been  dreaming." 

'*My  dear  brother;"  she  laid  her  head  down 
on  his  pillow,  and  her  hair  flowed  over  him 
as  if  she  wuuld  hide  him  from  every  one  but 
herself;  '"is  there  nothing  that  you  have  to  tell 
me?  Is  there  nothing  you  can  tell  me,  if  you 
will.  You  can  tell  me  nothing  that  will  change 
me.     U  Tom,  tell  me  the  truth  1" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Loo." 

"As  you  lie  here  alone,  my  dear,  in  the 
melaiichuly  night,  so  you  must  lie  somewhere 
one  night,  when  even  I,  if  I  am  living  then, 
shall  have  left  you.  As  I  am  here  beside  you, 
barefoot,  unclothed,  undistinguishable  in  dark- 
ness, so  must  I  lie  through  all  the  night  of  my 
decay,  until  I  am  dust.  In  the  name  of  that 
time,  Tom,  tell  me  the  truth  now !" 

"What  is  it  you  want  to  know  ?'' 

"You  luay  be  certain  ;"  in  the  energy  of  her 
love  she  took  him  to  her  bosom  as  if  he  were 
a  child;  "that  I  will  not  reproach  you.  You 
may  be  certain  thac  I  will  be  compassionate 
and  true  to  yon.  You  may  be  certain  that  I 
will  save  you  at  whatever  cost.  0  Tom,  have 
you  nothing  to  tell  me?  Whisper  very  softly. 
Say  only  'yes,'  and  I  shall  understand  you!" 

She  turned  her  ear  to  his  lips,  but  he  remain- 
ed doggedly  silent. 

"Not  a  word,  Tom?" 

"How  can  I  say  Yes,  or  how  can  I  say  No, 
when  I  don't  know  what  you  mean?  Loo,  you 
are  a  brave  kind  girl,  worthy  I  begin  to  think 
of  a  better  brother  than  I  am.  But  I  have  no- 
thing more  to  say.     Go  to  bed,  go  to  bed." 

"You  are  tired,"  she  whispered  presently, 
more  in  her  usual  way. 

"Yes,  I  am  quite  tired  out." 

"You  have  been  so  hurrie"!  and  disturbed 
to-day.  Have  any  fresh  discoveries  been 
made?" 

"Only  those  you  have  heard  of,  from — 
him." 

"Tom,  have  you  said  to  any  one  that  we 
made  a  visit  to  those  people,  and  that  we  saw 
those  three  together  ?  ' 

"No.     Did'ut  you  yourself  particularly  ask 


me  to  keep  it  quiet,  wben  you  asked  me  to  go 
there  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  But  I  did  not  know  then  what  was 
going  to  happen." 

"  Nor  I  neither.     How  could  I  ?" 

He  was  very  quick  upon  her  with  this 
retort. 

"Ought  I  to  say,  after  what  has  happened," 
said  his  sister,  standing  by  the  bed — she  had 
gradually  withdrawn  herself  and  risen,  'that 
1  made  that  visit?  Should  I  say  so?  Must  I 
say  so?" 

"Good  Heavens,  Loo,''  returned  her  brother, 
"you  are  notm  the  habit  of  asking  my  advice. 
Say  what  you  like.  If  you  keep  it  to  your- 
self, I  shall  keep  it  to  w((^self.  If- you  disclose 
it,  there's  an  end  of  it." 

It  was  too  dark  for  either  to  see  the  other's 
face ;  but  each  seemed  very  attentive,  and  to 
consider  before  speaking. 

"Tom,  do  you  believe  the  man  I  gave  the 
money  to,  is  really  implicated  in  this  crime?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't 
be." 

"He  seemed  to  me  an  honest  man." 

"Another  person  may  seem  to  you  dishonest, 
and  yet  not  be  so." 

There  was  a  pause,  for  he  had  hesitated  and 
stopped. 

"In  short,"  resumed  Tom,  as  if  he  had  made 
up  his  mind,  "if  you  come  to  that,  perhaps  I 
was  so  far  from  being  altogether  in  his  favor, 
that  I  took  him  outside  the  door  to  tell  him 
quietly,  that  I  thought  he  might  consider  him- 
self very  well  off  to  get  such  a  windfall  as  he 
had  got  from  my  sister,  and  that  I  hi'ped  he 
would  make  a  good  use  of  it.  You  remember 
whether  1  took  him  out  or  not.  I  say  nothing 
against  the  man;  he  may  be  a  very  good  lel- 
low,  for  an}lhiiig  I  know;  1  hope  be  is." 

"Was  he  oti'ended  by  what  }ou  said?" 

"No,  he  took  it  pretty  well  ;  he  was  civil 
enough.  Wiiere  are  you.  Loo?"  He  sat  up 
in  bed  and  kissed  her.  "Good  night,  my  dear, 
good  night !'' 

"You  have  nothing  more  to  tell  me  ?"' 

"No.  v\  hat  should  1  have  ?  Y'ou  wouldn't 
have  me  tell  you  a  lie  ?" 

"I  wouldn't  have  you  do  that  to-night, 
Tom,  of  all  the  nights  in  your  life;  many  and 
much  ha|)uier  as  1  hope  they  will  be." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  Loo.  I  am  so  tired, 
that  I  am  sure  I  wonder  I  don't  say  anything, 
to  get  to  sleep.     Go  to  bed,  go  to  bed." 

Kissing  her  again,  he  turned  round,  drew 
the  coverlet  over  his  head,  and  lay  as  still  as 
if  that  time  had  come  by  which  she  had  ad- 
jured him.  She  stood  tor  some  time  at  the 
Oedside  before  she  slowly  moved  away.  She 
stopped  at  the  door,  looked  back  when  she  had 
opeuf-d  it,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  called  her? 
But  he  lay  still,  and  she  sufily  closed  the  door 
and  returned  to  her  room. 

Then  the  wretched  boy  looked  cautiously 
up  and  found  her  gone,  crept  out  of  bed,  fast- 
ened h'S  door,  and  threw  himself  upon  hi^  pil- 
low agaiu  ;  tearing  his  hair,  morosely  cry  n^ 


HARD  TIMES. 


15] 


grudgingly  loving  her,  hatefully  but  impeni- 
teiitly  spurning  himself,  and  no  less  hatefully 
and  unprofitably  spurning  all  the  good  in  the 
world. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Mrs.  Sparsit,  lying  by  to  recover  the  tone 
of  her  nerves  iu  Mr  Bounderby's  retreat, 
kept  such  a  sharp  lookout,  night  and  day, 
under  her  Coriolanian  eyebrows,  that  her  eyes, 
like  a  couple  of  lighthouses  on  an  iron  bound 
coa,st,  might  have  warned  all  prudent  mari- 
nt'rs  from  that  bold  rock,  her  Roman  inose  and 
the  dark  and  craggy  region  in  its  neighbor- 
hood, but  for  the  placidity  of  her  manner. 
Akhough  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  her 
retiring  for  the  night  could  be  anything  but 
a  form,  so  severely  wide  awake  were  those 
classical  eyes  of  hers,  and  so  impossible  did 
it  seem  that  her  rigid  nose  could  yield  to  any 
relaxing  influence,  yet  her  manner  of  sitting, 
smoothing  her  uncomfortable,  not  to  say, 
gritty,  mittens,  (they  were  constructed  of  a 
cool  fabric  like  a  meat-safe),  or  of  ambling  to 
unknown  places  of  destination  with  her  foot  in 
her  cotton  stirrup,  was  so  perfectly  serene,  that 
most  observers  would  have  been  constrained 
to  suppose  her  a  dove,  embodied  by  some  freak 
of  nature,  in  the  earthly  tabernacle  of  a  bird  of 
tUe  hook-beaked  order. 

She  was  a  most  wonderful  woman  for 
prowling  about  the  house.  How  she  got 
Iruin  story  to  story,  was  a  mystery  beyond 
solution.  A  lady  so  decorous  in  herself  and 
so  iiighly  connected,  was  not  to  be  suspected 
of  dropping  over  the  bannisters  or  sliding 
down  them,  yet  her  extraordinary  facility  of 
locomotion,  suggested  the  wild  idea.  Another 
nuticeable  circumstance  in  Mrs.  Sparsit  was 
that  she  was  never  hurried.  She  would  shoot 
with  consummate  velocity  from  the  root  to  the 
hall,  yet  would  be  in  full  possession  of  her 
breath  and  dignity  on  the  moment  of  her  ar- 
rival there.  Neither  was  hhe  ever  seen  by 
human  vision  to  go  at  a  great  pace. 

She  tuok  very  kindly  to  Mr.  Harthouse,  and 
had  some  pleasant  conversation  with  him  suou 
after  her  arrival.  She  made  him  her  stately 
curtsey  in  the  garden,  one  morning  before 
breakt'ast. 

"It  appears  but  yesterday,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  '"that  1  had  the  honor  of  receiving 
you  at  the  Bank,  when  you  were  so  ^ood  as 
to  wish  to  be  made  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Bounderby's  address." 

"An  occasion,  1  am  sure,  not  to  be  forgot- 
ten by  myself  in  the  course  of  Ages,  said  Mr. 
Harthouse,  inclining  his  head  to  Mrs.  Sparsit 
with  the  most  indolent  of  all  possible  airs. 

'•  We  live  in  a  singular  world,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit." 

''I  have  had  the  honor,  by  a  coincidence  of 
which  1  am  proud,  to  have  made  a  remark, 
similar  in  eS'ect,  though  not  so  epigrammati- 
cally  expressed  " 

"  A  singular  world,  I  would   say,    sir,"  pur- 


sued Mrs.  Sparsit ;  after  acknowledging  tho 
compliment  with  a  drooping  of  her  dark  eye 
brows,  not  altogether  so  mild  in  its  expression 
as  her  voice  was  in  its  dulcet  tones  ;  "  a« 
regards  the  intimacies  we  form  at  one  time, 
with  individuals  we  were  quite  ignorant  of,  a* 
another.  I  recall,  sir,  that  on  that  occasion 
you  went  so  far  as  to  say  you  were  actually 
apprehensive  of  Miss  Gradgrind." 

"  Your  memory  does  me  more  honor  than 
my  insignificance  deserves.  I  availed  myse'f 
of  your  obliging  hints  to  correct  my  timidity, 
and  it  is  unnecessary  to  add  that  they  were 
perfectly  accurate.  Mrs.  Sparsil's  talent  for 
— in  fact,  for  anything  requiring  accuracy — 
with  a  combinat.on  of  strength  of  mind — and 
Family — is  too  habitually  developed  to  admit 
of  any  question."  He  was  almost  falling 
asleep  over  this  compliment;  it  took  him  so 
long  to  get  through,  anS  his  mind  wandered 
so  much  in  the  course  of  its  execution. 

"You  found  Miss  Gradgrind — I  really  can- 
not call  her  Mrs.  Bounderby  ;  it's  very  ab.-urd 
of  me — as  youthful  as  I  described  her  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  sweetly. 

"You  drew  her  portrait  perfectly,"  said  Mr. 
Harthouse.     "Presented  her  dead  image." 

"Very  engaging,  sir  ?"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
causing  her  mittens  slowly  to  revolve  over  one 
another. 

"Highly  so." 

"It  used  to  be  considered,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  "that  Miss  Gradgrind  was  wanin.g 
in  animation,  but  1  confess  she  appears  to  me 
corsiderably  and  strikingly  improved  in  that 
respect.  Ay,  and  indeed  here  is  Mr.  B  am- 
derby!"  cried  Mrs.  Sparsit,  nodding  her 
head  a  great  many  times,  as  if  she  had  been 
talking  and  thinking  of  no  one  else,  "flow 
do  you  find  yourself  this  morning  sii?  Pray 
let  us  see  you  cheerful,  sir." 

Now,  these  persistent  assuagements  of  his 
misery,  and  lightenings  of  his  load,  had  l)y 
this  time  begun  to  have  the  effect  of  makitig 
Mr.  Bounderbj  softer  than  usual  towards 
Mrs.  Sparsit,  and  harder  than  usual  tu  nn  st 
other  j)eople  from  his  wife  downward.  >u, 
when  Mrs.  Spareit  said,  with  forced  lightnens 
of  heart,  "You  want  your  breakfast,  sir,  but 
I  dare  say  Miss  Gradgrind  will  soon  be  hfre 
to  preside  at  the  table,"  Mr.  Bourdt-rbv 
replied,  "If  I  waited  to  be  taken  care  ol  t)y 
my  wife,  ma'am,  I  believe  y  u  know  pretty 
well  I  should  wait  till  Doomsday,  so  I'll  trouble 
;/uu  to  take  charge  of  the  teapot."  Mrs.  Sj^Kir- 
sit  complied,  and  assumed  her  old  position  ut 
table. 

This  again  made  the  excellent  woman  vastly 
sentimental.  She  was  so  humble  withal,  that 
when  Louisa  appeared,  she  rose,  protestiu:.' 
she  never  could  think  of  sitting  iti  that  place 
under  existing  circumstances,  often  as  .-he 
had  had  the  honor  of  making  .Mi.  Boundr-rbj's 
breakfast,  before  Mrs  Grailgrind— .-he  beg;;>«i 
pardon,  she  meant  to  say,  Miss  Boundeiby 
— shp  hoped  te  be  excused,  but  .-he  reully 
could  not  get  it  ri^hi  yit,  ihou-ii    she  itu^iicJ 


152 


DICKEXS'   NE\Y   STORIES. 


to  become  familiar  with  it  by  and  by — had 
assumed  her  present  position.  It  was  only 
(she  observed)  because  Miss  Gradgriud  hap- 
pened to  be  a  litth  late,  and  Mr.  Bounderby's 
time  was  so  very  precious,  and  she  knew  it  of" 
old  to  be  so  essential  that  he  should  break- 
fast to  the  moment,  that  she  had  taken  the 
liberty  ofcomplyinj^  with  his  request :  long  as 
his  will  had  been  a  law  to  her. 

"There  I  stop  where  you  are,  ma'am,"  said 
Mr.  Bouiiderby,  "stop  where  you  are  !  Wrs. 
Bounderby  will  be  very  glad  to  be  relieved  oi' 
the  trouble,  I  believe." 

"Don't  say  that,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
almost  with  severity,  ''because  that  is  very  un- 
kind to  Mrs.  Bounderby.  And  to  be  unkind 
is  not  to  be  you,  sir." 

"You  may  set  your  mind  at  rest,  ma'am.  — 
You  can  take  it  very  quietly,  can't  you  Loo?" 
said  Mr.  Bounderby,  in  a  blustering  way  to  bis 
wile. 

'^Oi'  course.  It  is  of  no  moment.  Why 
should  it  be  of  any  importance  to  me?" 

"  Why  should  it  be  of  any  importance  to 
any  rnie,  Mrs.  Sparsit,  ma'am?"  said  Mr. 
I'ouiiderby,  swelling  with  a  sense  of  slight. 
'  You  attach  too  much  importance  to  these 
tilings,  ma'am.  By  George,  you'll  be  cor- 
rt  cted  in  some  of  your  notions  here.  You  are 
old  fashioned,  ma'am.  You  are  behind  Tom 
Gradgriiid's  children's  time." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  asked 
Louisa,  coldly  surprised.  "What  has  given 
you  (/ffence  ?" 

''Ollence  1"  repeated  Bounderby.  "Do  you 
suppose  if  there  was  any  offence  given  me,  I 
sluiuldii't  name  it,  and  request  to  have  it  cor- 
rected ?  I  am  a  straight  forward  man,  I  be- 
lieve. I  don't  go  beating  about  for  side- 
winds." 

"1  suppose  no  one  ever  had  occasion  to  think 
\ou  too  diliident,  or  too  delicate,"  Louisa 
aiKswefed  him  composedly:  "I  have  never 
made  that  objection  to  you,  either  as  a  child  or 
a->  a  woman.  I  don't  understand  what  you 
would  have." 

"Have?" returned  Mr.  Bounderby.  "Nothing. 
Otherwise,  don't  you.  Loo  Bounderby,  know 
thoroughly  well  that  I,  Josiah  Bounderby  of 
(Juketown,  would  have  it?" 

She  looked  at  him,  as  he  struck  the  table 
and  made  the  teacups  ring,  with  a  proud  color 
ill  her  face  that  was  a  new  change,  Mr.  Hart- 
house  ihou>;ht.  "You  are  incomprehensible 
tills  inornir.g,"  said  Louisa.  "Pray  take  no 
lurtlier  trouble  to  explain  yourself.  I  am  not 
curi.jus  to  know  your  meaning.  What  does  it 
matter!  ' 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  this  theme,  and 
Mr.  Harthouse  was  soon  idly  gay  on  indiOerent 
ouhjectt.  But,  from  this  day,  the  Sparsit 
action  upon  Mr.  Bounderby  threw  Louisa 
and  Jaines  Harlhouse  more  together,  and 
b.reugilieiied  the  dangerous  alienations  from 
her  husb;in(i  and  coiiti'ience  against  liira  with 
another,  into  winch  slie  hail  tallen  b_\  det^rets 
SO  fine,  that  she  could  not  retrace  tlitiu  U  she 


tried.  But,  whether  she  ever  tried  or  no,  lay 
hidden  in  her  own  closed  heart. 

Mrs.  Sparsit  was  so  much  affected  on  thia 
particular  occasion,  that  assisting  Mr.  Boun- 
dcby  to  his  hat  after  breakfast,  and  being 
then  alone  with  him  in  the  hall,  she 
imprinted  a  chaste  kiss  upon  his  hand,  mur- 
mured "my  benefactor!"  and  retired,  over- 
whelmed with  grief  Yet  it  is  an  indubitable 
fact,  within  the  cognizance  of  this  history,  that 
five  minutes  after  he  had  left  the  house  in  the 
selfsame  hat,  the  same  descendant  of  the 
Scadgerses  and  connexionby  matrimony  of  the 
Powlers,  shook  her  right-hand  mitten  at  his 
portrait,  made  a  contemptuous  grimace  at  that 
work  of  art,  and  said  "Serve  you  right,  you 
Noodle,  and  I  am  glad  of  it!" 

Mr.  Bounderby  had  not  been  long  gone, 
when  Bitzer  appeared.  Bitzer  had  come  down 
by  train,  shrieking  and  rattling  over  the  long 
line  of  arches  that  bestrode  the  wild  country 
of  past  and  present  coal  pits,  with  an  express 
from  Stone  Lodge.  It  was  a  hasty  note  to 
inform  Louisa,  that  Mrs.  Gra'lgrind  lay 
very  ill.  She  had  never  been  well,  within  her 
daughter's  knowledge  ;  but,  she  had  declined 
within  the  last  few  days,  had  continued  sink- 
ing all  through  the  night,  and  was  now  as  near- 
ly dead,  as  her  limited  capacity  of  being  in 
any  state  that  implied  the  ghost  of  an  inten- 
tion to  get  out  of  it,  allowed. 

Accompanied  by  the  lightest  of  porters,  fit 
colorless  servitor  at  Death's  door  when  Mrs. 
Gradgrind  knocked,  Louisa  rumbled  to  Coke- 
town,  over  the  coalpits  past  and  present,  and 
was  whirled  into  its  smoky  jaws.  She  dismis- 
sed the  messenger  to  his  own  devices,  and  rude 
away  to  her  old  home. 

She  had  seldom  been  there,  since  her  mar- 
riage. Her  father  was  usually  sifting  and  sift- 
ing at  his  p:<rliainentary  cinder-heap  in  Lon- 
don (without  being  observed  to  turn  up  many 
precious  articles  among  the  rubbish,)  and  was 
still  hard  at  it  in  the  national  dust-yard.  Her 
mother  had  taken  it  rather  as  a  disturbance 
than  otherwise,  to  be  visited,  as  she  reclined 
upon  her  sofa;  young  people,  Louisa  felt  her- 
self all  unfit  for;  Sissy  she  had  never  softened 
to  again,  since  the  night  when  the  stroller's 
child  had  raised  her  eyes  to  look  at  Mr.  Boun- 
derby's intended  wife.  She  had  no  induce- 
ments to  go  back,  and  had  rarely  gone. 

Neither,  as  she  approached  her  old  home 
now,  did  any  of  the  best  influences  of  old 
home  descend  upon  he.  The  dreams  of 
childhood — its  airy  fables;  its  graceful,  beauti- 
ful, humane,  impossible  adornments  of  the 
world  beyond ;  so  good  to  6e  believed  in 
once,  so  good  to  be  remembered  when  out- 
grown, for  then  the  least  among  them  rises  to 
the  stature  of  a  great  charity  in  the  heart, 
suffering  little  children  to  come  int'  the  midst 
of  it,  and  to  keep  with  their  pure  hands  a  gar- 
den in  the  stony  ways  of  this  world,  wherein  it 
were  better  for  all  the  children  of  Adam  that 
they  should  ot'teiier  sun  themselves,  simple  and 
u  uailul,  and  not  worldly-wise — what  had  she 


HARD  TIMES. 


153 


to  do  with  these  ?  Remembrances  of  how  she 
had  journeyed  to  the  little  that  she  knew,  by 
the  enchanted  roads  of  what  she  and  millions 
of  innocent  creatures  had  hoped  and  ima- 
gined; of  how,  first  coming  upon  lltason 
through  the  tender  light  of  Fancy,  she  had 
seen  it  a  beneficent  god,  deferring  to  gods  as 
great  as  itself:  not  a  grim  Idol,  cruel  and 
culd,  with  its  victims  bound  hand  to  foot,  and 
its  big  dumb  shape  set  up  with  a  sightless 
stare,  never  to  be  moved  by  anything  but  so 
many  calculated  tons  of  leverage — what  had 
she  to  do  with  these?  Her  remembrances  of 
home  atid  childhood,  were  remembrances  of 
the  drying  up  of  every  spring  and  fountain  in 
her  young  heart  as  it  gushed  out.  The  golden 
waters  were  not  there.  They  were  flowing  for 
the  fertilization  of  the  land  where  grapes  are 
gathered  from  thorns,  and  figs  from  thistles. 

She  went,  with  a  heavy,  hardened  kind  of 
sorrow  upon  her,  iuto  the  house  and  into  her 
mother's  room.  Since  the  time  of  her  leaving 
home,  Sissy  had  lived  with  the  rest  of  the 
family  on  equal  terms.  Sissy  was  at  her 
mother's  side;  and  Jane,  her  sister,  now  ten  or 
twelve  years  old,  was  in  the  room. 

There  was  great  trouble  before  it  could  be 
made  known  to  Mrs.  Gradgrind  that  her  eldest 
child  was  there.  She  reclined,  propped  up, 
from  mere  habit,  on  a  couch;  as  nearly  in  her 
old  usual  attitude,  as  anything  so  helpless 
could  be  kept  in.  She  had  positively  refused 
to  tike  to  her  bed;  on  the  ground  that  if  she 
did,  she  would  never  hear  the  last  of  it. 

Her  feeble  voice  sounded  so  far  away  in 
her  bundle  of  shawls,  and  the  sound  of 
another  voice  addressing  her  seemed  to  take 
such  a  long  time  in  getting  down  to  her  ears, 
that  she  might  have  been  lying  at  the  bottom 
of  a  wtU.  Ihe  poor  lady  was  nearer  Truth 
than  she  ever  had  been:  which  had  much  to  do 
with  it. 

On  being  told  that  Mrs.  Bounderby  was 
there,  she  replied,  at  cross-purposes,  that  she 
had  never  called  him  by  that  name  since  he 
married  Louisa;  that  pending  her  choice  ol 
ail  unobjectionable  name,  she  had  called  him 
J.;  and  that  she  could  not  at  present  depart 
from  that  regulation,  not  being  yet  provided 
with  a  permanent  substitute.  Louisa  had  sat 
by  her  tor  some  minutes,  and  had  spoken  to 
her  often,  before  she  arrived  at  a  clear  under- 
standing who  it  was.  bhe  then  seemed  to 
come  to  it  all  at  once. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  "and 
I  hope  you  are  going  on  satisfactorily  to  your- 
self. It  was  all  your  father's  doing.  He  set 
his  heart  upon  it.     And  he  ought  to  know." 

"I  want  to  hear  of  you,  mother;  not  of  my- 
self." 

"You  want  to  hear  of  me,  my  dear? 
Thai's  souiethiiig  new,  1  am  sure,  wtieii  any- 
body wants  to  hear  of  me.  Not  at  all  well, 
Louisa.      Very  taint  and  gidd}." 

''Are  you  in  pain,  dear  niuiuer  ?'' 

''1  think  there  s  a   paiu    ouinewhere    in    the 


room,"  said  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  "but  I  couldn't 
positively  say  that  I  have  got  it." 

After  this  strange  speech,  she  lav  silent  foi 
some  time.  Louisa,  holding  her  hand,  could 
feel  no  pulse ;  but  kis.»iug  it,  could  see  a  slight 
thin  thread  of  life  in  lluttering  ni'^tion. 

"You  very  seldom  see  your  sister,"  said  Mrs. 
Gradgrind.  "She  grows  like  you.  I  wish  you 
would  look  at  her.     Sissy,  bring  her  here."' 

She  was  brought,  and  stood  with  her  hand 
in  her  sister's.  Louisa  had  observed  her  with 
her  arm  round  Sissy's  neck,  and  she  felt  the 
difference  of  this  approach. 

"  Do  you  see  the  likeness,  Louisa?" 

"  Yes,  mother.  I  should  think  her  like  me. 
But"— 

"Eh?  Yes,  I  always  say  so,"  Mrs.  Grad- 
grind cried,  with  unexpected  quickness.  "  And 
that  reminds  me.  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  my 
dear.  Sissy,  my  good  girl,  lea\e  us  aloLe  a 
minute."' 

Louisa  had  relinquished  the  hand  :  had 
thought  that  her  sister's  was  a  better  and 
brighter  face  than  hers  had  ever  been  ;  had 
seen  in  it,  not  without  a  rising  feeling  of 
resentment,  even  in  that  place  and  at  that 
time,  something  of  the  geutlene>s  of  the  other 
face  in  the  room;  the  sweet  tace  with  the  trust- 
ing eyes,  made  paler  than  watching  and  sym- 
pathy made  it,  by  the  rich  dark  hair. 

Left  alone  with  her  mother,  Louisa  saw  her 
lying  with  an  awful  lull  upon  her  face,  like  one 
who  was  floating  away  upon  some  great  water, 
all  resistance  over,  content  to  be  carried  dowp 
the  stream.  She  put  the  shadow  of  a  hand  to 
her  lips  again,  and  recalled  her. 

"You  were  going  to  speak  to  me,  mother."' 

"Eh?  Y'es,  to  be  sure,  my  dear.  You  know 
your  father  is  almost  always  away  now,  and 
therefore  I  must  write  to  him  about  it." 

"About  what,  mother?  Don't  be  troubled. 
About  what  ?" 

"You  must  rememl)er,  my  dear,  that  when- 
ever I  have  said  anything,  on  any  subject,  I 
have  never  heard  the  la.-,t  of  it;  and  conse- 
quently, that  I  have  long  left  off  siiying  any- 
thing." 

"I  can  hear  you,  mother."  But,  it  was  only 
by  dint  of  beuding  down  her  ear,  and  at  the 
same  time  attentively  watching  the  lips  as  they 
moved,  that  she  could  link  such  faint  and 
broken  sounds  into  any  chain  of  connexion. 

"You  learnt  a  great  deal,  Louisa,  and  so  did 
your  brother.  Ologies  of  all  kinds,  from 
morning  to  night.  If  there  is  any  Ology  left, 
of  any  description,  that  has  not  been  worn  to 
rags  in  this  house,  all  I  can  say  is,  I  hope  I 
shall  never  hear  its  name." 

"I  can  hear  you,  mother,  when  you  have 
strength  to  go  on."  This,  to  keep  her  from 
floating  away. 

"But  there's  something — not  an  Ology  at 
all — that  your  father  has  missed,  or  forgottea. 
Louisa.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  1  have 
often  sat  with  Sissy  near  me,  and  thought 
about  it.  I  shall  never  get  it"s  name  now 
But  your  father  may.     It   makes  me  restless. 


154 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


I  want  to  write  to  him  to  find  out  for  God's 
Bake,  what  it  is.  Give  me  a  pen,  give  me  a 
pen." 

Even  the  power  of  restlessness  was  gone, 
except  from  the  poor  head,  which  could  just 
turn  from  side  to  side. 

She  fancied,  however,  that  her  request  had 
been  complied  with,  and  that  the  pen  she 
could  not  have  held  was  in  her  hand.  It 
matters  little  what  figures  of  wonderful  no- 
meaning  siie  began  to  trace  upon  .her  wrap- 
pers. The  hand  soon  stopped  in  the  midst 
of  them ;  the  light  that  had  always  been 
feeble  and  dim  behind  the  weak  transparenty 
went  out;  and  even  Mrs.  Gradgrind,  emerging 
from  the  shadow  in  which  man  walketh  and 
disquieteth  himself  in  vain,  took  upon  her  the 
dread  solemnity  of  the  sages  and  patriarchs. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Mrs.  Sparsit's  nerves  being  slow  to  re- 
cover their  tone,  the  worthy  woman  made 
a  stay  of  some  weeks  in  duration  at  Mr. 
Bounderby's  retreat,  where,  notwithstanding 
her  anchorite  turn  of  mind  based  upon  her 
becoming  consciousness  of  her  altered  station, 
she  resigned  herself,  with  noble  fortitude,  to 
lodging,  as  one  may  say,  in  clover,  and  feeding 
on  the  i'at  of  the  land.  During  the  whole 
term  of  this  recess  from  the  guardianship  of 
the  Bank,  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  a  pattern  of  con- 
sistency; continuing  to  take  such  pity  on  Mr. 
Bounderby  to  his  face,  as  is  rarely  taken  on 
man,  and  to  call  his  portrait  a  Noodle  to  its 
face,  with  the  greatest  acrimony  and  con- 
tempt. 

Mr.  Bounderby,  having  got  it  into  his  explo- 
sive composition  that  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  a  high- 
ly superior  woman  to  perceive  that  he  had  that 
general  cross  upon  him  in  his  deserts  (tor  he 
had  not  yet  settled  what  it  was),  and  further 
that  Louisa  would  have  objected  to  her  as  a 
frequent  visiter  if  it  had  comported  with  his 
greatness  that  she  should  object  to  anything 
he  chose  to  do,  resolved  not  to  lose  sight  of 
Mrs.  Sparsit  easily.  So,  when  her  nerves  were 
strung  up  to  the  pitch  of  again  consuming 
sweetbreads  in  solitude,  he  said  to  her  at  the 
dinner-table,  on  the  day  before  her  depar- 
ture, "1  tell  you  what,  ma'am;  you  shall  come 
down  here  of  a  Saturday  while  the  fine  weather 
lasts,  and  stay  till  Monday."  To  which  Mrs. 
Sparsit  returned,  in  eti'ect,  though  not  of  the 
Mahommedan  persuasion :  *'  To  hear  is  to 
obey." 

Now,  Mrs.  SparsitVas  not  a  poetical  Wi)raan ; 
but  she  took  an  idea,  in  the  nature  of  an  alle- 
gorical fancy,  into  her  head.  Much  watching 
of  Louisa,  and  much  consequent  observation 
of  her  impenetrable  demeanor,  which  keenly 
whetted  and  sharpened  Mrs.  Sparsit's  edizc, 
must  have  given  her  as  it  were  a  lift,  in  the 
way  of  inspiration.  She  created  in  her  mind 
a  mighty  Staircase,  with  a  dark  pit  of  shame 
and  ruin  at  the  bottom ;  and  down  these  stairs, 


from  day  to  day  and  hour  to  hour,  she  saw 
Louisa  coming. 

It  became  the  business  of  Mrs.  Sparsit's 
life,  to  look  up  at  the  staircase,  and  to  watch 
Louisa  coming  down.  Sometimes  slowly, 
sometimes  quickly,  sometin<e3  several  steps 
at  one  bout,  sometimes  slopping,  nevei  turn- 
ing back.  If  she  had  once  turned  back,  it 
might  have  been  the  death  of  Mrs.  Sparsit  in 
spleen  and  grief. 

She  had  been  descending  steadily,  to  the 
day,  and  on  the  day,  when  Mr,  Bounderby 
issued  the  weekly  invitation  recorded  above. 
Mrs.  Sparsit  was  in  good  spirits,  and  inclined 
to  be  conversational. 

"And  pray,  sir,"  said  she,  "if  I  may  ven- 
ture to  a^k  a  question  appertaining  to  any 
subject  on  which  you  show  reserve — which  is 
indeed  hardy  in  me,  for  I  well  know  you 
have  reason  for  everything  you  do— have  you 
received  intelligence  respecting  the  robbery?" 

"Why,  ma'am,  no;  not  yet.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  didn't  expect  it  yet.  Rome 
wasn't  built  in  a  day,  ma'am." 

"Very  true,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  shaking 
her  head. 

"Nor  yet  in  a  week,  ma'am." 

"No,  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
with  an  air  of  melancholy. 

"In  a  similar  manner,"  said  Bounderby,  "I 
can  wait,  you  know.  If  Romulus  and  Remus 
could  wait,  Josiah  Bounderby  can  wait.  1  hey 
were  better  otf  in  their  youth  than  I  was,  how- 
ever. They  had  a  she  wolf  for  a  nurse;  / 
had  only  a  she  wolf  for  a  grandmother.  She 
didn't  give  any  milk,  ma'am;  sl.e  gave  bruises. 
She  was  a  regular  Alderney  at  that." 

"Ah  I"  Mrs.  Sparsit  sighed  and  shuddeied. 

"No,  ma'am,"  continued  Bounderby,  "i  have 
not  heard  anything  more  about  it.  It's  in 
hand,  though;  and  young  Tom,  who  rather 
sticks  to  business  at  present — something  new 
for  him;  he  hadn't  the  schooling  I  had — is 
helping.  My  injunction  is,  keep  il  quiet,  and 
let  it  seem  to  blow  over.  Do  what  }ou  like 
under  the  rose,  but  don't  give  a  sign  of 
what  you're  about;  or  half  a  hundred  of  'em 
will  combine  together  and  get  tliis  tellow  who 
has  bolted,  out  of  reach  ior  good.  Keep  it 
quiet,  and  the  thieves  will  grow^  in  conliueuce 
by  little  and  little,  and  we  shall  have  "em." 

"Very  sagac  ous  indeed,  -sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Sparsit.  "  Very  interesting.  The  old  wcman 
you  nientioned,  sir " 

"The  old  woman  I  mentioned,  ma'am," 
said  Bounderby,  cutting  the  matter  shcrt,  as  it 
was  nothing  to  boast  about,  "is  not  laid  hold 
of;  but,  ohe  may  take  her  oath  she  will  be,  if 
that  is  any  satisfaction  to  her  villanous  old 
mind.  Ill  the  meantime,  ma'am,  I  am  of  ori- 
nion,  if  you  ask  me  my  opinion,  that  the  less 
she  is  talked  about,  the  belter." 

1  hat  same  evening,  Mrs.  Sparsit.  in  her 
chamber  window,  reding  from  her  packing 
operations,  looked  towards  her  great  staircase 
and  saw  Louisa  still  descending. 

She  sal  by  Mr.  Hailhou^e,  lu   an  alcove  in 


HARD  TIMES. 


155 


the  garden,  talking  very  low.  He  stood  lean- 
ing over  her,  as  they  whispered  together,  and 
his  face  almost  touched  her  haii-.  "If  not 
quite  1"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  straining  her  hawk's 
eyes  to  the  utmost.  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  too  dis- 
tant to  iiear  a  word  of  their  di»,course,  or  even 
to  know  that  they  were  speaking  softly,  other- 
wise than  from  the  expression  of  their  hgures; 
but  what  they  said  was  this : 

"You  recollect  the  man,  Mr.  Harthouse?"' 

"Oh,  perfeetlyl" 

"Uis  face,  and  his  manner,  and  what  he 
said?" 

'•Perfectly.  And  an  infinitely  dreary  person 
he  appeared  to  me  to  be.  Lengthy  and  prosy 
iu  tlie  extreme.  It  was  very  knowing  to  hold 
forth,  iu  the  humble-virtue  school  of  eloquence; 
but,  I  assure  you  1  thought  at  ihe  time,  'My 
good  fellow,  yoa  are  ovt-r-doing  this!'" 

"It  has  been  very  dithcult  to  me  to  think  ill 
of  that  man." 

'•My  dear  Louisa — as  Tom  says."  Which 
he  never  did  say.  "You  know  no  good  of  the 
fellow?" 

"No,  certainly." 
"Nor  of  any  other  such  person?'' 

"Hi)W  can  1,"  she  returned,  witn  more  of 
her  tirst  manner  on  her  than  he  had  lately 
Seen,  "when  1  know  nothing  of  them,  men  or 
women?" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Bounderbyl  Then  con- 
sent to  receive  the  submissive  representation 
of  your  devoted  friend,  who  knows  some- 
tlimg  ot  several  varieties  of  his  excellent 
fellovv  creatures, — for  excel  eiit  they  are,  1 
li.ive  no  doubt,  in  spite  of  such  Utile  I'uibles 
a.>  aUviiys  helping  iheniselves  to  wliat  they 
Can  get  hold  of.  This  fellow  talks.  Well; 
every  ieilow  talks.  His  protessmg  moraiiiy 
oulv  deserves  a  moment's  consideration,  as 
being  a  very  suspicious  oircuni.^lance.  All 
smfs  of  humbugs  protess  morality,  trom  the 
lipase  ol  Commons  t  >  the  House  ol  Oorrectiou, 
except  our  people;  it  really  is  that  t^xteplion 
wliich  inaRes  our  people  quite  reviving.  \.ou 
savv  and  heard  the  case,  flere  was  a  coin- 
muii  man,  pulled  up  extremely  ohi  rt  by  ni} 
esteemed  fnend  Mr.  dounderliy — who,  a.-^  we 
know,  IS  iidt  possessed  ot'ihai  delicacy  whi  h 
wouiii  iiulten  so  light  a  baud.  1  he  common 
man  was  injured,  exasperated,  lelt  ilie  house 
grumbling,  met  somebody  v\ho  proposed  to 
liuu  to  go  in  for  some  share  in  this  iiank  busi- 
uens,  went  in,  put  something  in  his  pocket 
which  had  nothing  in  it  before,  and  relieved 
his  mmd  extremely.  Keally  he  would  have 
been  an  uncommon,  instead  of  a  common, 
man,  it  he  had  not  availed  hiin»'  If  of  such 
au  oppuruinity.  Ur  he  may  have  made  it  alto- 
gt-iher,  if  he  had  the  cleverness.  Equally  pro- 
b.ible  !" 

•'1  almost  feel  as  though  it  must  be  bad  in 
nit-,"  returned  Louisa,  after  fitting  thoughtful 
awhile,  ••to  be  so  re;idy  to  agree  with  you,  ai'd 
tu  tie  so  lightened  in  ray  heart  by  what  you 
sa) ." 

"  1  only  say  what  is  reasonable  ;    nothing 


worse.  I  have  talked  it  over  with  my  friend 
Tom  more  than  once — of  course,  I  remain  on 
terms  of  perfect  contidence  with  Tom—  and  he 
is  (juite  of  my  opinion,  and  1  am  quite  of  his. 
Will  you  walk?'' 

'J'hey  strolled  away,  among  the  lanes  begin- 
ning 10  be  indistinct  in  the  twilij^ht  -she  lemm- 
ing on  his  arm — and  she  little  thought  how 
she  was  going  down,  down,  down,  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit's  staircase. 

Night  and  day,  Mrs.  Sparsit  kept  it  stand 
ing.  When  Louisa  had  arrived  at  the  boUom 
and  disappeared  in  the  gulf,  it  might  fall  in 
upon  lier  if  it  would;  but,  until  then,  there  it 
was  to  be,  a  Building,  before  Mrs.  Sparsit's 
eyes.  And  there  Louisa  always  was,  upon  it. 
Always  gliding  down,  down,  down. 

Mrs.  Sparsit  saw  James  Harthouse  come 
and  go;  she  heard  of  him  here  and  there: 
she  saw  the  changes  of  the  face  he  had 
studied;  she,  too,  remarked  to  a  nicety  how 
and  when  it  clouded,  how  and  when  it  cleared; 
.-ihe  kept  her  black  eyes  widt;  open,  with  no 
touch  of  pity,  with  no  touch  of  compunc- 
tion, all  absorbed  in  interest;  but,  in  the  inte- 
rest of  seeing  her,  ever  drawing  with  no  hand 
to  stay  her,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  bottom 
of  this  new  Giants'  Staircase. 

With  all  her  deference  for  Mr.  Bounderby, 
as  contradistinguished  from  his  portrait, 
Mrs.  Sparsit  had  not  the  smallest  intention 
of  interrupting  the  descent.  Eager  to  see  it 
accomplished,  and  yet  patient,  she  waited  for 
the  last  fall  as  for  the  ripeness  and  fulness  of 
the  harvest  of  her  hopes.  Hushed  in  expect- 
ancy, she  kept  her  wary  gaze  upon  the  stairs; 
and  seldtnn  so  much  as  darkly  shook  her  right 
mitten  (with  her  hst  in  it),  at  the  figure 
comin'f  down. 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

The  figure  descended  the  great  stairs, 
steadily,  steadily ;  always  verging,  like  a 
weight  in  deep  water,  to  the  black  gulf  at  the 
bottom. 

Mr.  Gradgrind,  apprised  of  his  wife's  de- 
cease, made  an  expedition  from  London,  and 
buried  in-r  in  a  business  like  manner.  He 
ihen  returned  with  promptitude  to  the  nation- 
al cinder-heap,  and  resumed  his  sifiing  for  the 
odds  and  ends  he  wanted,  and  his  throwing  of 
the  dust  about  into  the  eyes  of  other  people 
who  wanted  other  odds  and  ends — in  fact,  re- 
sumed his  parliamentary  duties. 

Li  the  meantime,  Mrs.  Sparsit  kept  un- 
winking watch  and  ward.  Separated  from 
her  staircase,  all  the  week,  by  the  len;;th  of 
iron  road  dividing  Coketown  from  the  country 
house,  she  yet  maintained  her  cat-like  obser- 
vation of  Louisa,  through  her  husliand,  through 
her  brother,  through  James  Harthouse, 
through  the  outsides  of  letters  and  packets, 
through  everything  animate  and  inanimate 
that  at  any  lime  went  near  the  stairs.-— 
"  Yoii^r  fool  on  the  last  st.'p,  my  lady,"  aaid 
Mrs.    Sparsit,    aposirojihising    the    descend- 


156 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


ing  figure,  with  the  ai'l  of  her  threatening 
mitten,  "  and  all  your  art  shall  never  bind 
me." 

Art  or  nature  thou^'h,  the  original  s'ock 
of  Louisa's  charact^jr  ur  the  grait  ut  cireu  in- 
stances upon  it, — her  curious  reserve  cic 
baflie,  while  it  stimulated,  one  as  sagacious  as 
Mrs.  S|iiirsit.  There  were  times  when  Mr. 
James  llarthouse  was  not  sure  of  her.  There 
Wert  times  when  he  could  not  re.atl  the  face 
he  had  studied  so  long;  and  when  this  lonely 
girl  was  a  greater  m}stt-ry  to  him  than  any 
woman  of  the  world  widi  a  ring  of  satellites 
to  help  her. 

So  the  time  went  on  ;  until  it  happened  that 
Mr.  bounderby  was  called  away  from  home 
by  business  which  required  his  presence  else- 
where, tor  three  or  luur  days.  It  was  on  a 
f'riday  that  he  intimated  this  to  Mrs.  Sparsit 
at  the  lianlv,  adding  :  "  But  you'll  go  down  to- 
moriow,  ma'am,  all  the  same.  You  11  go  do^vn 
just  as  if  I  was  there.  It  will  make  no  ditfer- 
euce  to  you." 

"  Pray,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  re- 
proachfully, ''let  me  beg  you  not  to  say  that. 
Your  absence  will  make  a  v^st  ditference  to 
me,  sir,  as  I  think  you  very  well  know." 

"Well,  ma'am,  then  you  must  get  on  in  my 
absence  as  well  as  you  can,"  said  Bounderby, 
not  displeased. 

'•Mr.  Bounderby,"  retorted  Mrs.  Sparsit., 
"your  will  is  to  me  a  law,  sir;  otherwise,  it 
might  be  my  inclination  to  dispute  your  kind 
cotumaiids,  not  feeling  sure  that  it  will  be  quite 
so  agreeable  to  Miss  Gradgr.ud  to  receive  me, 
as  It  ever  is  to  your  own  munihcent  hospitality. 
But  you  sh  ill  say  no  more,  sir.  I  will  go,  upon 
your  invitation.'" 

'*\Vhy,  when  I  invite  you  to  my  house, 
ma'tim,''  said  Bounderby,  ()peiiiiig  his  e}es,  ''1 
should  hope  you  want  no  ottier  iiivitaiion." 

•'Xo  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "I 
should  hope  noL  Say  no  more,  sir.  1  would, 
sir,  1  c(juld  see  you  gay  again  1" 

"What  do  you  mean,  ma'am?''  blustered 
Bounderby. 

"Sir,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  there  was 
wont  to  be  an  elasticity  in  you  which  I  sadly 
miss.     Be  buoyant,  sir!"' 

Mr.  Buuiiderby,  under  the  influence  of  this 
ddhcult  adjuration,  backed  up  by  her  compas- 
sionate eye,  could  only  scratch  his  head  in  a 
feeble  and  ridiculous  manner,  and  afterwards 
assert  himself  at  a  di.^iance,  by  being  heard 
to  bully  the  small  fry  of  business  all  the  morn- 
ing. 

'•Bitzer,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit  that  afterncon, 
when  her  patron  was  gone  on  his  journey, 
and  the  Bank  was  clositig,  "  present  my  com- 
pliments to  young  Mr.  1  homas,  and  ask  him 
if  he  would  step  up  and  partake  of  a  laitb 
chop  and  wstlnut  ketchup,  with  a  gla.ss  ol 
India  ale  T'  Young  Mr.  Tht-mas  being 
usually  ready  tor  anUlui.g  in  that  way,  re- 
tun  ed  a  gracious  an>wfr.  and  followed  on  its 
heels.  "  Mr.  Thorn  is,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
"  these  plaiu  viands  being  on  table,  I  thought 


vou    miirht    be    tempted."     "  Thankee,    Mrs. 
Sparsit,"  said  the  whelp.   And  gloomily  fell  to. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Harthouse,  Mr.  Tom '/"  asked 
Mrs.  Sparsit. 

"(Jh  he  is  all  ri2ht,"said  Tom. 

"  Where  may  he  be  at  present?"  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit asked  in  a  light  conrersational  manner, 
after  mentally  devoting  the  wlielj)  to  the 
Furies  fir  beiu;^  so  uncommunicative. 

"  He  is  shooting  in  Yorksliire,"  said  Tom. 
"Sent  Loo  a  basket  ha  f  as  big  as  a  church, 
yesterday.'' 

"  I  he  kind  of  gentleman  now,"  said  Mrs. 
Spai>it,  sweeily,  "  wlum  one  might  wager  to 
be  a  good  shot !  " 

"  Crack,''  said  Tom. 

He  had  long  bet^n  a  down-looking  young 
fellow,  but  this  characteristic  had  so  increased 
of  late  that  he  never  raised  his  eyes  to  any 
lace  for  three  seconds  togtnber.  Mrs.  Sparsit 
conseq  .ently  had  ample  means  of  watching 
his  looks,  if  she  were  so  inclined, 

"Mr.  Harthouse  is  a  great  fav(jrite  of  mine,*' 
said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "as  indeed  he  is  of  most  peo- 
ple. May  we  expect  to  see  him  again  shortly, 
Mr.  Tom?'' 

"Why,  /expect  to  see  him  to-morrow,"  re- 
turned the  whelp. 

"Good  news!''  cried  Mrs.  Sparsit,  blandly. 

"1  have  got  an  appointment  with  him  to 
meet  him  in  the  evening  at  the  station  here," 
said  Tom,  "and  I  am  going  to  dine  with  him 
afterwards,  I  believe.  He  is  not  coming  down 
to  Nickils's  for  a  week  or  so,  being  die  some- 
where else.  At  least,  he  says  so;  but  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  was  to  stop  here  over  Sunday, 
and  stray  that  w.iy." 

"Which  reminds  me!"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
"  Would  you  remember  a  message  to  your 
sister,  Mr.  Tom,  if  I  was  to  charge  you  with 
one?'' 

"Weill  I'll  try,"  returned  the  reluctant 
whelp,  "if  it  isn't  a  long  un." 

"  It  is  merely  my  respec'ful  compliments,'' 
said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  '"and  I  fear  1  may  not 
trouble  her  witti  my  society  this  week;  being 
still  a  little  nervous,  and  better  perhaps  by  my 
po  r  self." 

"Oh!  If  that's  all,"  observed  Tom,  "it 
wouldn't  matter  much,  even  if  I  wis  to  forget 
it,  lor  Loo's  not  likely  to  think  of  you  unless 
she  sees  you." 

Havi  igpaid  for  his  entertaiimient  with  this 
a^Teeable  comriliment,  he  relapsed  into  a 
hngdog  silence  until  there  was  no  more  India 
ale  let't,  when  he  sai'l,  "  Well,  Mrs.  Sparsit,  I 
must  be  oft'I"  and  went  off. 

Next  day,  Saturday,  Mrs.  Sparsit  sat  at  her 
window  ail  day  long:  looking  at  the  custom- 
ers coming  in  and  out,  watching  the  pLstmen, 
keeping  an  eye  on  the  general  tratlie  of  the 
street,  revolving  many  things  in  her  mind, 
but,  above  all,  keeping  her  attention  on  her 
staircase.  1  he  evenii  gcome,  she  put  on  her 
l)Oiiuei  and  shawl,  and  wt-nt  quietly  out:  hav- 
lUir  her  reasons  tor  hovering  in  a  furtive  way 
I  about  the  station  by  which  a  passenger  would 


HARD  TIMES. 


157 


arrive  from  Yorkshire,  and  for  preferrin<r  to 
peep  into  it  round  pillars  and  corners,  and  out 
of  ladies'  waiting-ruom  windows,  to  appearing 
in  its  precincts  openly. 

Tom  was  in  attendance,  and  loitered  about 
until  the  expected  train  came  in.  It  brought 
no  Mr.  Harthouse.  Tom  waited  until  the 
F  crowd  had  dispersed,  and  the  bustle  was 
over;  and  then  referred  to  a  posted  list  of 
trains,  and  took  counsel  with  porters.  That 
done,  he  strolled  away  idly,  sto[iping  in  the 
street  and  looking  up  it  and  down  it,  and 
i  lifting  his  hat  otf  and  putting  it  on  again,  and 
yawning,  and  stretching  himself,  and  exliibit- 
ing  all  the  symptoms  of  mortal  weariness  to 
be  expected  in  one  who  had  siill  to  wait  until 
the  next  train  should  come  in,  an  hour  and 
forty  minutes  hence. 

"This  is  a  device  to  keep  him  out  of  the 
way,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  starting  from  the  dull 
office  window  whence  she  had  watched  him 
last.     "  Harthouse  is  with  his  sister  now  I" 

It  was  the  conception  of  an  inspired  mo- 
ment, and  she  shot  off  with  her  utmost  swift- 
ness to  work  it  out.  The  station  for  the  coun- 
try house  was  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  town; 
the  time  was  short,  the  road  not  easy  ;  but  she 
was  so  quick  in  pouncing  on  a  disengaged 
coach,  so  quick  in  darting  out  of  it,  producinj; 
her  money,  seizing  her  ticket,  and  diving  into 
the  train,  that  she  was  borne  along  the  arches 
sipanning  the  land  of  coal-pits  past  and  present, 
as  if  she  had  been  caught  up  in  a  cloud  and 
whirled  away. 

All  the  journey,  immovable  in  the  air 
though  never  left  behind  ;  plain  to  the  dark 
eyes  of  her  mind,  as  the  electric  wires  which 
ruled  a  colossal  strip  of  music-paper  out  ot  the 
evening  sky,  were  plain  to  the  dark  eyes  of  her 
body  ;  Mr.  Sparsit  saw  her  staircase,  with  the 
figure  coming  down.  Very  near  the  bottom 
uow.     Upon  the  brink  of  the  abyss. 

An  overcast  September  evening,  just  at 
nightfall,  saw  beneath  its  drooping  eyelid  Mrs. 
Sparsit  glide  out  of  her  carriage,  pass  down 
the  wooden  steps  of  the  little  station  into  a 
stony  road,  cross  it  into  a  green  lane,  and  be- 
come hidden  in  a  summer  growth  of  leaves 
and  branches.  One  or  two  late  birds,  sleepily 
chirping  in  their  nests,  and  a  bat  heavily 
crossing  and  recrossing  her,  and  the  reek  of 
her  own  tread  in  the  thick  dust  that  felt  like 
velvet,  were  all  Mrs.  Sparsit  heard  or  saw  un- 
til she  very  softly  closed  a  gate. 

She  went  up  to  the  house,  keeping  within 
the  shrubbery,  and  went  round  it,  peeping 
between  the  leaves  at  the  lower  windows. 
Most  of  them  were  open,  as  they  usually  were 
in  such  warm  weather,  but  there  were  no  lights 
yet,  and  all  was  silent.  She  tried  the  garden 
with  no  better  effect.  She  thought  of  the 
wood,  and  stole  towards  it,  heedless  of  long 
grass  and  briers;  of  worms,  snails  and  slugs, 
and  all  the  creeping  things  that  be.  With  her 
dark  eyes  and  her  hook  nose  waril"  in  advance 
of  her,  Mrs.  Sparsit  softly  cruslied  her  way 
througL    the    thick    undergrowth,   so    intent 


upon  her  object  that  she  probably  would  have 
done  no  less,  if  the  wood  had  been  a  wood  of 
adders. 

Hark! 

The  smaller  birds  might  have  tumbled  out 
of  their  nests,  fascinated  by  the  glittering  of 
Mrs.  Sparsit's  e)es  in  the  gloom,  asshe  stopped 
and  listened. 

Low  voices  close  at  hand.  His  voice,  and 
hers.  The  appointment  ica.s  a  device  to  keep 
the  brother  away  !  There  they  were  yonder, 
by  the  felled  tree. 

Bending  low  among  the  dewy  grass,  Mrs. 
Sparsit  advanced  closer  to  them.  She  drevy 
herself  up,  and  stood  behind  a  tree,  like  Ri>- 
binson  Crusoe  in  his  ambuscade  against  the 
savages  ;  so  near  to  them  that  at  a  spring, 
and  that  no  great  one,  she  could  have 
touched  them  both.  He  was  there  secretly, 
and  had  not  shown  himself  at  the  house, 
lie  had  C(nne  on  horseback,  and  must  have 
passed  through  the  neighboring  fields  ;  for  his 
horse  was  tied  to  the  meadow  side  of  the  fence, 
within  a  few  paces. 

"  My  dearest  love,"  said  he,  "  what  could  I 
do?  Knowing  you  were  alone,  was  it  possible 
that  T  could  stay  away  ?" 

"  Yuu  may  hang  your  head,  to  make  your- 
self the  more  attractive ;  /  don't  know  what 
they  see  in  you  when  you  hold  it  up,"  thought 
Mrs.  Sparsit;  "  but  you  little  think,  my  dear- 
est love,  whose  eyes  are  on  you  1" 

That  she  hung  her  head,  was  certain.  She 
urged  him  to  go  away,  she  commanded  him 
to  go  away ;  but  she  neither  turned  her  face 
to  him,  nor  raised  it.  Yet  it  was  remarkable 
that  she  sat  as  still  as  ever  the  amiable  woman 
in  ambuscade  had  seen  her  sit,  at  any  period 
in  her  lite.  Her  hands  rested  in  one  another, 
line  the  hands  of  a  statue;  and  even  her  man- 
ner of  speaking  was  not  hurried. 

"My  dear  cliild,"  said  Harthouse;  Mrs. 
Sparsit  saw  with  delight  that  his  arm  embraced 
her;  "will  you  not  bear  with  my  society  for  a 
little  while  ?" 

''Not  here." 

"Where,  Louisa?" 

"Not  here." 

"But  we  have  so  little  time  to  make  so 
much  of,  and  1  have  come  so  far,  and  am  alto- 
gether so  devoted,  and  distracted.  There 
never  was  a  slave  at  once  so  devoted  and  iil- 
used  by  his  mistress.  To  look  for  your  sunny 
welcome  that  has  warmed  me  into  life,  and  to 
be  received  in  your  frozen  manner,  is  heart- 
rending." 

"  Ain  I  to  say  again,  that  I  must  be  left  to 
m. self  here  ?" 

"  But  we  must  meet,  my  dear  Louisa.  Where 
shall  we  meet  ?" 

They  both  started.  The  listener  started 
guiltily,  too  ;  for  she  thought  there  was  unotner 
listener  ainong  the  trees.  It  was  only  rain, 
beginning  to  fall  last,  in  heavy  drops. 

"Shall  I  ride  up  to  the  house  a  few  minutea 
hence,  innocent'y  supp(jsin;r  that  its  master  is 
at-home  and  will  be  charmed  to  receive  me?" 


158 


DICKENS'  NEW   STORIES. 


"No  I 


"  Your  cruel  commands  are  implicitly  to  be 
obeyed;  though  I  am  the  must  unfortunate 
fellow  in  the  world,  I  believe,  to  have  been 
insensible  to  all  other  women,  and  to  have 
fallen  ])rostrate  at  last  under  the  loot  of  the 
most  beautiful,  and  the  most  enjraginjr,  and  the 
most  imperious.  My  dearest  Louisa,  I  cannot 
go  myself,  or  let  you  go,  in  this  hard  abuse  of 
your  power." 

Mrs.  Sparsit  saw  him  detain  her  with  his  en- 
circling arm,  and  heard  him  then  and  there, 
within  her  (Mrs.  Sparsit's)  greedy  hearing, 
tell  her  how  he  loved  her,  and  bow  she  was 
the  stake  for  which  he  ardently  desired  to 
play  away  all  that  he  had  in  life.  The  objects 
he  had  lately  pursued,  turned  worthless  beside 
her  ;  such  success  as  was  almost  in  his  grasp, 
he  flung  away  from  him  like  the  dirt  it  was, 
compared  with  her.  Its  pursuit,  neverthe- 
less, if  it  kept  him  near  her,  or  its  renuncia- 
tion if  it  took  him  from  her,  or  flight  if  she 
shared  it,  or  secresy  if  she  commanded  it,  or 
any  fate,  or  every  fate,  all  was  alike  to  him,  so 
that  she  was  true  to  him, — the  man  who  had 
seen  how  cast  away  she  was,  whom  she  had 
inspired  at  their  first  mepting  with  an  admira- 
tion and  interest  of  which  he  had  thought 
himself  incapable,  whom  she  had  received  into 
her  confidence,  who  was  devoted  to  her  and 
adored  her.  All  this,  and  more,  in  his  hurry, 
and  in  hers,  in  the  whirl  of  her  own  gratified 
malice,  in  ihe  dread  of  being  discovered,  in  the 
rapidly  increasing  noise  of  heavy  rain  among 
the  leaves,  and  a  thunder-storm  rolling  up — 
Mrs.  Sparsit  received  into  her  mind;  set  off  with 
such  an  unavoidable  halo  of  confusion  and 
indistinctness,  that  when  at  length  he  climbed 
the  fence  and  led  his  horse  away,  she  was  not 
sure  where  they  were  to  meet,  or  when,  except 
that  they  had  suid  it  was  to  be  that  night. 

But  one  of  them  yet  remained  in  the  dark- 
ness before  her ;  and  while  she  tracked  that 
one,  she  must  be  riijht.  "  Oh,  my  dearest 
love,"  thought  Mrs.  Sparsij,  '•  you  little  think 
how  well  attended  you  are!" 

Mrs.  Sparsit  saw  her  out  of  the  wood,  and 
saw  her  enter  the  house.  What  to  do  next  ? 
It  rained  now,  in  a  sheet  of  water.  Mrs. 
Sparsit's  white  stockings  were  of  many  colors, 
green  predominating  ;  prickly'  things  were  in 
her  shoes ;  caterpillars  slung  themselves,  in 
hammocks  of  their  o«vn  making,  from  various 
parts  of  her  dress;  rills  ran  irom  her  bonnet, 
and  her  Roman  nose.  In  such  condition  Mrs. 
Sparsit  stood  hidden  in  the  density  of  the 
shrubbery,  considering  what  next? 

Lo,  Louisa  coining  out  of  the  house  I  Has- 
tily cloaked  and  muffled,  and  stealing  away. 
She  elopes !  She  falls  from  the  lowermost 
stair,  and  is  swallowed  up  in  the  gulf! 

Indifferent  to  the  rain,  and  moving  with  a 
quick  determined  step,  she  struck  into  a  side- 
path  parallel  with  the  ride.  Mrs.  Sparsit  fol- 
lowed in  the  ohadow  of  the  trees,  at  but  a 
short  distance  ;  for  it  was  not  easy  to  keep  a 


figure  in  yiew  going  quickly  through  the  um- 
brageous darkness. 

When  she  stopped  to  close  the  sidegat« 
without  noise,  Mrs.  Sparsit  stof>ped.  When 
she  went  on,  Mrs.  Sparsit  went  on.  She  went 
by  the  way  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  come,  emerged 
from  the  green  lane,  crossed  the  stony  road, 
and  ascended  the  wooden  steps  to  the  railroad. 
A  train  for  Coketown  would  come  through  pre- 
sently, Mrs.  Sparsit  knew;  so  she  understood 
Coketown  to  be  her  first  place  of  destination. 

In  Mrs.  Sparsit's  limp  and  streaming  state, 
no  extensive  precautions  were  necessary  to 
change  her  usual  ajipearance  ;  but,  she  stopped 
under  the  lee  of  the  station  wall,  tumVjled  her 
shawl  into  a  new  shape,  and  put  it  on  over 
her  bonnet.  So  disguised,  she  had  no  fear  of 
being  recognised  when  she  followed  up  the 
railroad  steps,  and  paid  her  money  in  the  small 
office.  Louisa  sat  waiting  in  a  corner.  Mrs. 
Sparsit  sat  waiting  in  another  corner.  Both 
listened  to  the  thunder,  which  was  loud,  and  to 
the  rain,  as  it  washed  off  the  roof,  and  pattered 
on  the  parapets  of  the  arches.  Two  or  three 
lamps  were  rained  and  blown  out;  so,  both  saw 
the  lightning  to  advantage  as  it  quivered  and 
zigzaged  on  the  iron  tracks. 

The  seizure  of  the  station  with  a  fit  of 
trembling,  gradually  deepening  to  a  complaint 
of  the  heart,  announced  the  train.  Fire  and 
steam,  and  smoke,  and  red  light ;  a  hiss,  a 
crash,  a  bell,  and  a  shriek  ;  Louisa  put  into 
one  carriage,  Mrs.  Sparsit  put  into  anotbt-r; 
the  little  station  a  desert  speck  in  the  thunder- 
storm. 

Though  her  teeth  chattered  in  her  head 
from  wet  and  cold,  Mrs.  Sparsit  exulted 
hugely.  The  figure  had  plunged  down  the 
precipice,  and  she  felt  herself,  as  it  were,  at- 
tending on  the  body.  Could  shcj  who  had 
been  so  active  in  the  getting  up  of  the  funeial 
triumph,  do  less  than  exult  ?  "She  will  be 
at  Coketown  long  before  him,"  thought  Mrs. 
Sf)arsit,  "  thoucrh  his  horse  is  never  so  ^ood. 
\\'here  will  she  w"ait  for  him  ?  And  where 
will  they  go  together  ?  Paiienee.  We  shall 
see." 

The  tremendous  rain  occasioned  infinite 
confusion,  when  the  train  stopped  at  its  des- 
tination. Gutters  and  pipes  had  burst,  drains 
had  overflowed,  and  streets  were  under  water. 
In  the  first  instant  of  alighting,  Mrs.  Spar*it 
turned  her  distracted  eyes  towards  the  wait- 
ing coaches,  which  were  in  great  request. 
"  She  will  get  into  one,"  she  considered,  "  and 
will  be  away  before  I  can  tollow  in  anotlicr. 
At  a'l  risks  of  being  run  over,  I  must  see  the 
number,  and  hear  the  order  given  to  the 
coachman." 

But,  Mrs.  Sparsit  was  wrong  in  her  calcu- 
lation. Louisa  got  into  no  coach,  and  was 
already  gone.  The  black  eyes  kept  upon  the 
railroad-carriage  in  which  she  had  travelled, 
settled  upon  it  a  moment  too  late.  The  door 
not  being  opened  after  several  minutes,  Mrs. 
Sparsit  passed  it  and  repassed  it,  saw  nothing, 
looked  in,  and  found  it  empty.      Wet  through 


HARD  TIMES. 


159 


and  through  ;  with  her  feet  squelching  and 
squashing  in  her  shoes  whenever  she  moved; 
with  a  rash  of  rain  upon  her  classical  visage ; 
with  a  bonnet  like  an  over-ripe  fig  ;  with  all 
her  clothes  spoiled  ;  with  damp  impressions 
of  every  button,  string,  and  hook-and-eye  she 
wore,  printed  off  upon  her  highly-connected 
back  ;  with  a  stagnant  verdure  on  her  general 
exterior,  such  as  accumulates  on  an  old  park 
fence  in  a  mouldy  lane  ;  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  no 
resource  but  to  burst  into  tears  of  bitterness 
and  say,  "I  have  lost  her !" 


CHAPTER  XXVIH. 

The  national  dustmen,  after  entertaining 
one  another  with  a  great  many  noisy  little 
fights  among  themselves,  had  dispersed  for  the 
present,  and  Mr.  Gradgrind  was  at  home  for 
the  vacation. 

He  sat  writing  in  the  room  with  the  deadly- 
statistical  clock,  proving  something  no  doubt 
— probably,  in  the  main,  that  the  Good  Sama- 
ritan was  a  Bad  Economist.  The  noise  of  the 
rain  did  not  disturb  him  much ;  but  Jt  attract- 
8d  his  attention  sufficiently  to  make  him  raise 
his  head  sometimes,  as  if  he  were  rather  re- 
monstrating with  the  elements.  When  it  thun- 
dered very  loudly,  he  glanced  towards  Coke- 
town,  having  in  his  mind  that  some  of  the  tall 
chimneys  might  be  struck  by  lightning. 

The  thunder  was  rolling  into  distance,  and 
the  rain  was  pouring  down  like  a  deluge,  when 
the  door  of  his  room  opened.  He  looked  round 
the  lamp  upon  his  table,  and  saw  with  amaze- 
ment, his  eldest  daughter. 

"  Louisa!" 

"  Father,  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"What  is  the  matter?  How  strange  you 
look !  And  good  Heaven,"  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind, wondering  more  and  more,  '"have  you 
come  here  exposed  to  this  storm  ?" 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  dress,  as  if  she 
hardly  knew.  "Yes."  Then  she  uncovered 
her  head,  and  letting  her  cloak  and  hood  fall 
where  they  might,  stood  looking  at  him  :  so 
colorless,  so  dishevelled,  so  defiant  and  despair- 
ing, that  he  was  afraid  of  her. 

"What  is  it?  I  conjure  you,  Louisa,  tell 
me  what  is  the  matter." 

She  dropped  into  a  chair  before  him,  and 
put  her  cold  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Father,  you  have  trained  me  from  my 
cradle." 

"Yes,  Louisa." 

"  I  curse  the  hour  in  which  I  was  born  to 
tuch  a  destiny." 

He  looked  at  hpr  in  doubt  and  dread, 
vacantly  repeating,  "  Curse  the  hour  ?  Curse 
the  h(nir  ?" 

"  Uo  could  you  give  me  life,  and  take  from 
me  all  the  inapprecuxbie  things  that  raise  it 
from  the  state  of  conscious  death  ?  Where 
are  the  graces  of  my  soul  ?  Where  are  the 
sentiments  of  my  heart?  ^\'hat  have  you 
done,  0  faiht-r  what  have  you  done,  with  the 


garden  that  should  have  bloomed  once,  in  this 
great  wilderness  here!" 

She  struck  herself  with  both  her  hands  upop 
her  bosom. 

"  If  it  had  ever  been  here,  its  ashes  alone 
would  save  me  from  the  void  in  which  my 
wlole  life  sinks.  I  did  not  mean  to  i-ay  this; 
but,  father,  you  remember  the  last  time  we 
conversed  in  this  room  ?" 

He  had  been  so  wholly  unprepared  for 
what  he  heard  now,  that  it  was  with  difli- 
culty  lie  answered,  "  Yes,  Louisa." 

"What  has  risen  to  my  lips  now,  would  have 
risen  to  my  lips  then,  if  you  had  given  me  a 
moment's  help.  I  don't  reproach  you,  father. 
What  you  have  never  nurtured  in  me,  you 
have  never  nurtured  in  yourself;  but  0  !  if  you 
had  only  done  so  long  ago,  or  if  you  had  only 
neglected  me,  what  a  much  happier  creature 
I  should  have  been  this  day !" 

On  hearing  this,  after  all  his  care,  he  bowed 
his  head  upon  his  hand  and  groaned  aloud. 

"Father,  if  you  had  known,  when  we  were 
last  together  here,  what  even  I  feared  while  I 
strove  against  it — as  it  has  been  my  task  from 
infancy  to  strive  against  every  natural  prompt- 
ing that  has  arisen  in  my  heart ;  if  you  had 
known  that  there  lingered  in  my  breast,  sen- 
sibilities, affections,  weaknesses,  capable  of 
being  cherished  into  strength,  defying  all  the 
calculations  ever  made  by  man,  and  no  more 
known  to  his  arithmetic  than  his  Creator  is, 
— would  you  have  given  me  to  the  husband 
whom  I  am  now  sure  that  I  hate  ?" 

He  said,  "No.     No,  my  poor  child." 

"Would  you  have  doomed  me,  at  any  time, 
to  the  frost  and  blight  that  have  hardened  and 
spoiled  me?  Would  you  have  robbed  me — for 
no  one's  enrichment — only  for  the  greater  de- 
solation of  this  world — of  the  immaterial  part 
of  my  life,  the  spring  and  summer  of  my  be- 
lief, my  refuge  from  what  is  sordid  and  bad  in 
the  real  things  around  me,  my  school  in  which 
I  should  have  learned  to  be  more  humble  and 
more  trusting  with  them,  and  to  hope  in  my 
little  sphere  to  niake  them  better  ?" 

"0  no,  no.     No,  Louisa." 

"Yet,  lather,  if  1  had  been  stone  blind  ;  if  I 
had  groped  my  way  by  my  sense  of  touch,  and 
had  been  free,  while  I  knew  the  shapes  and 
surfaces  of  things,  to  exercise  my  fancy  some- 
what, in  regard  to  them ;  I  should  have  been 
a  million  times  wiser,  happier,  more  loving, 
more  contented,  more  innocent  and  human 
in  all  good  respects,  than  I  am  with  the  eyes 
I  have.  Now,  hear  what  I  have  come  to 
say." 

He  moved  to  support  her  with  his  arm.  She 
rising  as  he  did  so,  they  stood  close  together ; 
she  with  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  looking 
fixedly  in  his  lace. 

•'  With  a  hunger  and  thirst  upon  me,  father, 
which  have  never  lieen  for  a  moment  a[i[ieased  : 
with  an  anient  impulse  towards  sunn;  region 
where  rules,  and  figures,  and  definitions  were 
not  ([uite  absulule;  I  have  grown  up,  battling 
every  inch  of  my  way." 


160 


DICKENS'  NEW   STORIES. 


"  I  never  knew  yon  were  unhappy,  my  child." 
"Father,  I  always  knew  it.  In  this  strife  I 
have  almost  repulsed  and  crushed  my  better 
angel  into  a  demon.  What  I  have  learned 
has  left  me  doubting,  misbelieving,  despising, 
regretting,  what  I  have  not  learned  ;  and  my 
dismal  resource  has  been  to  think  that  life 
would  soon  go  by,  and  that  nothing  in  it 
could  be  worth  the  pain  and  trouble  of  a 
contest." 

"  And  you  so  young,  Louisa  I"  he  said  with 

'•  And  I  so  young.  In  this  condition,  father 
— for  I  show  you  now,  without  fear  or  favor, 
the  ordinary  deadened  state  of  my  mind  as  I 
know  it— you  proposed  my  husband  to  me.  I 
took  him.  I  never  made  a  pretence  to  him 
or  you  that  I  loved  him.  I  knew,  and,  father, 
you  knew,  and  he  knew,  that  I  never  did.  I 
was  not  wholly  indifferent,  for  I  had  a  hope  of 
being  pleasant  and  useful  to  Tom.  I  made 
that  wild  escape  irto  something  visionary, 
and  have  gradually  found  out  how  wild  it  was. 
But  Tom  had  been  the  subject  of  all  the  little 
imaginative  tenderness  of  my  life  ;  perhaps  he 
became  so  because  I  knew  so  well  how  to  pity 
him.  It  matters  little  now,  except  as  it  may 
dispose  you  to  think  more  leniently  of  his  er- 
rors." 

As  her  father  held  her  in  his  arm,  she  put 
Her  other  hand  upon  his  other  shoulder,  and 
still  looking  fixedly  in  his  face,  went  on. 

"When  I  was  irrevocably  married,  there  rose 
up  into  rebellion  against  the  tie,  the  old  strife, 
made  fiercer  by  a«ll  those  causes  of  disparity 
■which  arise  out  of  our  two  individual  natures, 
and  which  no  general  laws  shall  ever  rule  or 
state  for  me,  father,  until  they  shall  be  able  to 
direct  the  anatomist  where  to  strike  his  knife 
into  the  secrets  of  my  soul." 

"  Louisa  1"  he  said,  and  said  imploringly  ; 
for  he  well  remembered  what  had  passed  be- 
tween them  in  their  former  interview. 

"  I  do  not  reproach  jou,  father,  I  make  no 
complaint.     I  am  here  with  another  object." 

"  What  can  I  do,  child?  Ask  me  what  you 
will." 

"  I  am  coming  to  it.  Father,  chance  then 
threw  into  my  way  a  new  acquaintance  ;  a 
man  such  as  I  had  had  no  experience  of  ; 
used  to  tlie  world  :  light,  polished,  easy  ; 
making  no  pretences;  avowing  ihe  low  esti- 
mate of  everything,  that  I  was  half  afraid  to 
form  in  setTet;  conveying  to  me  almost  imme- 
diately, though  I  don't  know  how  or  by  what 
degrees,  that  he  understood  me,  and  read  my 
thoughts.  I  could  not  find  that  he  was  worse 
than  I.  T  lere  seemed  to  be  a  near  affinity 
between  us.  I  only  wondered  it  should  be 
worth  his  while,  who  cared  tor  nothing  else,  to 
care  so  much  fo»me." 

"  For  you,  Louisa!" 

Her  father  might  instinctively  have  loosened 
his  hold,  but  that  he  felt  her  strength  departing 
from  her.  and  saw  a  wild  dilating  fire  in  the 
eves  steadfastly  regarding  hmi. 

"  I  say  nothing  of  his  plea  for  claiming  my 


confidence.  It  matters  very  little  how  he 
gained  it.  Father,  he  did  gain  it.  What  yoa 
know  of  the  story  of  my  marriage,  he  soon 
knew,  just  as  well." 

Her  father's  face  was  ashy  white,  and  he 
held  her  in  both  his  arms. 

"  I  have  done  no  worse,  I  have  not  dis- 
graced you.  But  if  you  ask  me  whether  I 
have  loved  him,  or  do  love  him,  I  tell  you 
plainly,  father,  that  it  may  be  so.  I  don't 
know  !" 

She  took  her  hands  suddenly  from  hia 
shoulders  and  pressed  them  both  upon  her  side: 
while  in  her  face,  not  like  itself — and  in  her 
figure,  drawn  up,  resolute  to  finish  by  a  last 
effort  what  she  had  to  say — the  feelings  long 
suppressed  broke  loose. 

"  This  night,  my  husband  being  away,  he 
has  been  with  me,  declaring  himself  my 
lover.  This  minute  he  expects  me,  for  I  could 
release  myself  of  his  presence  by  no  other 
means.  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  sorry,  I  do 
not  know  that  I  am  ashamed,  I  do  not  know 
that  I  am  degraded  in  my  own  esteem.  All 
that  I  know  is,  your  philosophy  and  your 
teaching  will  not  save  me.  Now,  father,  you 
have  brought  me  to  this.  Save  me  by  some 
other  means  1" 

He  tightened  his  hold  in  time  to  prevent  her 
sinking  on  the  floor,  but  she  cried  out  in  a  ter- 
rible voice,  "I  shall  die  if  you  hold  me !  Let 
me  fall  upon  the  ground  I"  And  he  laid  her 
down  there,  and  saw  the  pride  of  his  heart  and 
the  triumph  of  his  system,  lying,  an  insensible 
heap,  at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Louisa  awoke  from  a  torpor,  and  her  eyes 
languidly  opened  on  her  old  bed  at  home,  and 
her  old  room.  It  seemed,  at  first,  as  if  all 
that  had  happened  since  the  days  when  these 
objects  were  familiar  to  her  were  the  shadows 
of  a  dream;  but  gradually  as  the  objects  be- 
came more  real  to  her  sight,  the  events  be-  . 
came  more  real  to  her  mind. 

She  could  scarcely  move  her  head  for  pain 
and  heaviness,   her  eyes   were  strained   and 
sore,   and    she    was  very   weak.      A    curious 
passive   inattention   had   such    possession   of     • 
her  that  the  presence  of  her  little  sister  in  the     j 
room  did  not    attract   her  notice    for    some     ' 
time.     Even   when  their  eyes   had   met,  and 
her  sister  had  approached  the  bed,  Louisa  lay 
for  minutes    looking  at   her  in    silence,  and     j 
suffering  her  timidly  to  hold  her  passive  hand,     ] 
before  she  asked : 

"When  was  I  brought  to  this  room  ?" 

"Last  night,  Louisa." 

"  Who  brought  me  here?" 

"  Sissy,  I  believe." 

"  Why  do  you  believe  so  ?  " 

"  Because  I  found  her  here  this  morning. 
She  did'nt  come  to  my  bedside  to  wake  me, 
as  she  alwa)s  does,  and  1  went  to  look  tor  her. 
She  was  not  in  her  own  room  titber,  and  I 
went  looking  for  her  all  over  the  house  until  I 


HARD  TIMES. 


161 


found  her  here,  taking  care  of  you  and  cooling 
your  head.  Will  you  see  father?  Sissy  said 
I  was  to  tell  him  when  you  woke." 

"  What  a  beaming  face  you  have,  Jane  !  " 
said  Louisa,  as  her  young  sister — timidly  still 
— bent  down  to  kiss  her. 

"  Have  I  ?  I  am  very  glad  you  think  so. 
I  am  sure  it  must  be  Sissy's  doing." 

The  arm  Louisa  had  begun  to  twine  about 
her  neck  unbent  itself.  "  You  can  tell  father, 
if  you  will."  Then  staying  her  a  moment, 
she  said,  "  It  was  you  who  made  my  room  so 
cheerful,  and   gave  it  this  look  of  welcome  ?  '* 

"  Oh  no,  Louisa,  it  was  done  before  I  came. 
It  was " 

Louisa  turned  upon  her  pillow,  and  heard 
no  more.  When  her  sister  had  v/ithdrawn,  she 
turned  her  head  back  again,  and  lay  with  her 
face  towards  the  door  until  it  opened  and  her 
father  entered. 

He  had  a  jaded  anxious  look  upon  him,  and 
hid  hand,  usually  steady,  trembled  in  hers.  He 
sat  down  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  tenderly  ask- 
ing how  she  was,  and  dwelling  on  the  necessity 
of  her  keeping  very  quiet  after  her  agitation 
and  exposure  to  the  weather  last  night.  He 
spoke  in  a  subdued  and  troubled  voice;  very 
different  from  his  usual  dictatorial  manner, 
and  was  often  at  a  loss  for  words. 

"  My  dear  Louisa.  My  pour  daughter." — 
He  was  so  much  at  a  loss  at  that  place,  that 
he  stopped  altogether.     He  tried  again. 

"  My  unfortunate  child."  The  place  was  so 
difficult  to  get  over,  that  he  tried  again. 

"It  would  be  hopeless  for  me,  Louisa,  to  en- 
deavor to  tell  you  how  overwhelmed  1  have 
been,  and  still  am,  by  what  broke  upon  me 
for  the  first  time  last  night.  The  ground  on 
which  I  stand  has  ceased  to  be  solid  under 
my  feet.  The  only  support  on  which  1  leaned, 
and  the  strength  of  which  it  seemed  and  still 
does  seem  impossible  to  question,  has  given 
way  in  an  instant.  I  am  stunned  by  the^e 
discoveries.  I  have  no  selfish  meaning  in 
what  I  say,  but  I  find  the  shock  of  what  broke 
upon  me  last  night,  to  be  very  heavy  indeed." 

She  could  give  him  no  comfort  herein,  fche 
had  suffered  the  wreck  of  her  whole  life  upon 
the  rock. 

'■  I  will  not  say,  Louisa,  that  if  you  had  by 
any  happy  chance,  undeceived  me  some  time 
ago,  it  would  have  been  better  for  us  both  ; 
better  for  your  peace,  and  better  for  mine. 
For  I  am  sensible  that  it  has  not  been  a  pait 
of  my  system  to  invite  any  confidence  of  that 
kind.  1  have  proved  my — my  system  to  my- 
self, and  1  have  rigidly  administered  it,  and  I 
must  bear  the  responsibility  of  its  lailurt-s.  I 
only  entreat  you  to  believe,  my  favorite  child, 
that  I  have  meant  to  do  right." 

He  said  it  earnestly,  and  to  do  him  justice 
he  had.  In  gauging  fathomless  deeps  with 
his  little  mean  excise-rod,  and  in  staggeriii>.' 
over  the  universe  with  his  rusty  stiff-legged 
compasses,  he  had  meant  to  do  great  things. 
Within  the  limits  of  his  short  tether  he  had 
tumbled  about,  aiiiiihilatiug  the  ffowers  of 
11 


existence  with  greater  singleness  of  purpose 
than  many  of  the  blatant  personages  whose 
company  he  kept. 

"lam  well  assured  of  what  you  say,  father. 
I  know  I  have  been  your  favorite  child  ;  I 
know  you  have  intended  to  make  me  happy. 
I  have    never  blamed  you,  and  I  never  shall." 

He  took  her  outstretched  hand,  and  retained 
it  in  his. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  remained  all  night  at  my 
table,  pondering  again  and  again  on  what  has 
so  painfully  passed  between  us.  When  i  con- 
sider your  character;  when  I  consider  that  what 
has  b'  en  known  to  me  to-- hours  has  been  con- 
cealed by  you  for  years  ;  when  I  consider  und  r 
what  immediate  pre^^sure  it  has  been  forieii 
from  you  at  last;  1  come  to  the  conclusion  ihni 
1  cannot  but  mistrust  myself." 

He  might  have  added  more  than  all,  when 
he  saw  the  face  now  looking  at  him.  He  did 
add  it  in  effect,  perhaj»s,  as  he  solily  moved 
her  scattered  hair  I'rom  her  forehead  with  ihe 
palm  of  his  hana.  Such  little  actions,  slight 
in  aiiother  man,  were  very  noiicealile  in  h;ni, 
a  id  his  daughter  received  them  as  it  they  had 
been  words  of  contrition. 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  slowly,  and 
with  hesitation,  as  well  as  with  a  wietched 
sense  of  helplessness,  "if  1  see  reason  to  mis- 
trust myself  for  the  past,  Louisa,  1  should  also 
mistrust  myself  for  the  present  and  the  future. 
To  speak  unieservedly  to  you,  1  do.  1  am 
far  from  feeling  convinced  now,  however  dit- 
ferently  I  might  have  felt  only  this  time  }es- 
terday,  that  1  am  fit  for  the  trust  you  repose 
in  me ;  that  I  know  How  to  respond  to  the  ap- 
peal you  have  come  home  to  make  to  me  ; 
that  I  have  the  right  instinct — supposing  it  for 
the  moment  to  be  some  quality  of  that  na- 
ture— how  to  help  you  and  to  set  vou  right,  my 
child." 

She  had  turned  upon  her  pillow,  and  lay 
with  her  iace  upon  her  arm,  so  that  he  could 
not  see  it.  c.  II  her  ivildness  and  passion  had 
subsided  ;  but,  though  sotlened,  she  was  nut 
in  tears.  Her  father  was  changed  in  nothing 
so  much  as  in  the  respect  that  he  would  have 
been  glad  to  see  her  m  tears. 

"Some  persons  hold,"  he  pursued,  stiil 
hesitating,  "  that  there  is  a  wisdom  of  the 
Head,  and  that  there  is  a  wiodom  of  the 
Heart.  I  have  not  supposed  so,  but,  as  I 
have  said,  I  mistrust  myself  now.  1  have 
supposed  the  Head  to  be  all-sufficient.  It 
may  not  be  all-sufficient ;  how  can  I  venture 
this  morning  to  say  that  it  is?  If  that  other 
kind  of  wisdom  should  be  what  I  have  neg- 
lected, and  should  be  the  instinct  that  is 
wanted,  Louisa " 

He  suggested  it  very  doubtfully,  as  if  he 
were  half  unwilling  to  admit  it  even  now. 
She  made  him  no  answer,  l>ing  befure  him 
on  her  bed,  still  half-dressed,  much  as  he  had 
seen  her  lying  on  the  floor  of  his  room  last 
night. 

"  Louisa,"  and  his  hand  rested  on  her  hair 
I  again,  "  1   have   been   absent  from  here,   my 


162 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


dear;  a  good  deal  of  late,  and  though  your  1 
sister's  training  has  been  pur.sut-d  actordiiig 
to — the  system,"  he  appeared  to  come  to  that 
word  with  great  reluciauce  always,  "  it  has 
necessarily  been  modified  by  daily  associations 
begnn,  in  her  case,  at  a  very  early  age.  I  ask 
you — ignorantly  and  humbly,  my  daughter — 
for  the  better,  do  you  think  V 

"  Father,"  she  replied,  without  stirring,  "  if 
any  harmony  has  been  awakened  in  her  young 
breast  that  was  mute  in  mine  until  it  turned  to 
discord,  let  her  thank  God  for  it,  and  go  upon 
her  happier  way,  taking  it  as  her  greatest  bles- 
sing that  she  has  avoided  my  way. 

"  0  my  child,  my  child !"  he  said,  in  a  for- 
lorn manner,  "  1  am  an  unhappy  man  to  see 
you  thus!  What  avails  it  to  me  that  you  do 
not  reproach  me,  if  I  bitterly  reproach  myself!" 
He  bent  his  head  and  spoke  low  to  her.  "  Lou- 
isa, I  have  a  misgiving  that  some  change  may 
have  been  slowly  working  about  me  bv  mere 
love  and  gratitude;  that  what  the  Head  had 
left  undone,  and  could  not  do,  the  Heart  may 
have  been  doing  silently.     Can  it  be  so  ?" 

She  made  him  no  reply. 

"  1  am  not  too  proud  to  believe  it,  Louisa. 
How  could  I  be  arrogant,  and  you  before  me  1 
Can  it  be  so?     Is  it  so,  my  dear?" 

He  looked  upon  her,  once  more,  lying  cast 
away  there,  ai.d  without  another  word  went 
out  of  the  room.  He  had  not  been  long  gone 
when  she  heard  a  light  tread  near  the  door, 
and  knew  that  some  one  stood  beside  her. 

Slie  did  not  raise  her  head.  A  dull  anger 
that  she  should  be  seen  in  her  distress,  and 
that  the  involuntary  look  she  had  so  resented 
should  come  to  this  fuldlment,  smouldered 
within  her  like  an  unwholesome  fire.  All 
closely  imprisoned  forces  rend  and  destroy. 
The  air  that  would  be  healthful  to  the  earth, 
the  water  that  would  enrich  it,  the  heat  that 
would  ripen  it,  tear  it  when  caged  up.  So  in 
her  bosom  even  now.  The  strongest  qualities 
she  possessed,  long  turned  upon  themselves, 
became  a  heap  of  obduracy,  that  rose  against 
a  friend. 

It  was  well  that  soft  touch  came  upon  her 
neck,  and  that  she  understood  herself  to  be 
supposed  to  have  fallen  asleep.  The  sym- 
pathetic hand  did  not  claim  her  resentment. 
Let  it  lie  there,  let  it  lie. 

So  it  lay  there,  warming  into  life  a  crowd 
of  gentler  thoughts,  and  she  lay  still.  As 
she  softened  with  the  quiet  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  being  so  watched,  some  tears  made 
their  way  into  her  eyes.  The  face  stooped 
closer  to  her,  and  she  knew  that  there  were 
tears  upon  it  too,  and  she  the  cause  of  them. 

As  Louisa  feigned  to  rouse  herself,  and  sat 
up.  Sissy  retired,  so  that  she  stood  placidly  at 
the  bed  side. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  disturbed  you.  I  have 
come  to  ask  if  you  will  let  me  stay  with  you." 

'•Why  should  you  stay  with  me?  My  sister 
will  miss  you.     You  are  everything  to  her." 

"Am  1?"  returned  Sissy,  smiling  and  shak- 


ing her  head.     "I  would  be  something  to  jou' 
dear  Miss  Louisa,  if  1  might." 

"What  ?"  said  Louisa,  almost  sternly, 

"Whatever  you  want  most,  if  1  could  be 
that.  At  all  events  I  would  like  to  try  to  be 
as  near  it  as  I  can.  And  however  far  off  thai 
may  be,  I  will  never  tire  of  trying.  Will  you 
let  me  ?" 

"  My  father  sent  you  to  ask  me  ?" 

"No  intleed,"  replied  Sissy.  "He  told  me 
that  I  might  come  in  now,  but  he  sent  me 
away  from  the  room  this  morning — or  at  least 
— "     She  hesitated  and  stopped. 

"At  least,  what?"  said  Louisa,  with  her 
searching  eyes  upon  her. 

"1  thought  it  best  myself  that  I  should  bo 
sent  away,  tor  I  felt  very  uncertain  whethei 
you  would  like  to  find  me  here." 

"  Have  I  always  hated  you  so  much?" 

"I  hope  not,  for  I  have  always  been  truly 
attached  to  you,  and  deeply  wishful  that  you 
should  know  it.  But  you  changed  to  me  a 
little,  shortly  before  you  left  home.  Not  that 
I  wondered  at  it.  You  knew  so  much,  and  I 
knew  so  little  ;  and  it  was  so  natural  in  many 
ways,  going  as  you  were  among  other  friends, 
that  I  had  nothing  to  complain  of,  and  was  not 
at  all  hurt." 

Her  color  rose  as  she  said  it  modestly  and 
hurriedly.  Louisa  understood  the  loving  pre- 
tence, and  her  haart  smote  her. 

"  May  I  try  ?"  said  Sissy,  emboldened  to 
raise  her  hand  to  the  neck  that  was  insensibly 
drooping  towards  her. 

Louisa,  taking  down  the  hand  that  would 
have  embraced  her  in  another  moment,  held 
it  tight  in  one  of  hers,  and  answered: 

"First,  Sissy,  you  should  know  what  I  am. 
I  am  so  proud  and  so  hardened,  so  confused 
and  troubled,  so  resentful  and  unjust  to  every 
one  and  to  myself,  that  everything  is  stormy, 
dark,  and  wicked  to  me.  Does  not  that  repel 
you  ?" 

"No!" 

"I  am  so  unhappy,  and  all  that  should  have 
made  me  otherwise  is  so  laid  waste,  that  if  I 
had  been  bereft  of  sense  to  this  hour,  and  in- 
stead of  being  as  learned  as  you  think  me,  had 
to  begin  to  acquire  the  simplest  truths,  I  could 
not  want  a  guide  to  peace,  contentment, 
honor,  all  the  good  of  which  I  am  quite  de- 
void, more  abjectly  than  I  do.  Does  not  that 
repel  you  ?" 

"No!" 

In  the  innocence  of  her  brave  affectio:,  and 
the  trimming  up  of  her  old  devoted  spirit,  the  , 
once  deserted  girl  shone  like  a  beautiful  light 
upon  the  darkness  of  the  other. 

Louisa  raised  the  hand  that  it  might  clasp 
her  neck,  and  join  its  fellow  there.  She  fell 
upon  her  knees,  and  clinging  to  this  stroller's 
child  looked  up  at  her  almost  with  veneration. 

"Forgive  me,  pity  me,  help  me!  Have 
compassion  on  my  great  need,  and  let  me  lay 
this  head  of  mine  upon  a  loving  hi  art." 

"U  lay  it  here !"  cried  Sissy.  'Lay  it  here, 
my  dear." 


HARD  TIMES. 


163 


Louisa's  tears  fell  like  tbe  blessed  rain 
after  a  long  drought.  The  sullen  glare  was 
over,  and  in  every  drop  there  was  a  germ  of 
hope  and  promise  for  the  dried-up  ground. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Mr.  James  Harthouse  passed  a  whole  night 
and  a  day  in  a  state  of  so  much  hurry  that  the 
World,  with  its  best  glass  in  its  eye,  would  have 
scarcely  recognised  him  during  that  insane  in- 
terval, as  the  brother  Jem  of  the  honorable 
and  jocular  member.  He  was  positively  agi- 
tated. He  several  times  spoke  with  au  em- 
phasis, similar  to  the  vulgar  manner.  He 
went  ill  and  went  out  in  a  most  unaccountable 
way,  like  a  man  with  an  object.  He  rode  like 
a  highwayman.  In  a  word,  he  was  so  horriblv 
bored  by  real  existing  circumstances,  that  he 
forgot  to  go  in  for  iioredom  in  the  manner  pre- 
scribed by  the  authorities. 

After  putting  his  horse  at  Coketown  through 
the  storm,  as  if  it  were  a  leap,  he  waited  up 
all  night;  from  time  to  time  ringing  his  bell 
with  the  greatest  fury,  charging  the  porter  who 
kept  watch  with  delinquency  in  withholding 
letters  or  messages  that  could  not  fall  to  have 
been  entrusted  to  him,  and  demanding  resti- 
tution on  the  spot.  The  dawn  coming,  the 
morning  coming,  and  the  day  coming  and 
neither  message  nor  letter  coming  with  i  .ier, 
he  went  down  to  the  country  house.  I'lere, 
the  report  was,  Mr.  Bounderby  away,  ard  Mrs. 
Bounderby  in  town.  Left  for  town  suddenly 
last  evening.  Not  even  known  to  be  gone 
until  receipt  of  message,  importing  that  her 
return  was  not  to  be  expected  for  the  present. 

In  these  circumstances  he  had  nothing  for 
it  but  to  follow  her  to  town.  He  went  to  the 
house  in  town.  Mrs.  Bounderby  not  there  ; 
not  even  been  heard  of.  He  looked  in  at  the 
Bank.  Mr.  Bounderby  away,  and  Mrs.  Sparsit 
away.  Mrs.  Sparsit  away  ?  Who  could  have 
been  reduced  to  sudden  extremity  for  the 
company  of  that  gritiin  1 

"  Well !  I  don't  know,"  said  Tom,  who  had 
his  own  reasons  for  being  uneasy  about  it. 
"  She  was  off"  somewhere  at  daybreak  this 
morning.  She's  always  full  of  mystery  ;  I 
hate  her.  So  I  do  that  white  chap  ;  he's 
always  got  his  blinking  eye  upon  a  fellow." 

"  Where  were  you  last  night,  Tom?" 

"  Where  was  I  last  night  ! "  said  Tom. 
"  Come  !  I  like  that.  1  was  waiting  for  you, 
Mr.  Harthouse,  till  it  came  down  as  /  never 
saw  it  come  down  before.  Where  was  I  too ! 
Where  were  you,  you  mean." 

"  I  was  prevented  from  coming — detained." 

"  Detained!"  said  Tom.  "  Two  of  us  were 
^detained.  I  was  detained  looking  for  you  till 
I  lost  every  train  but  the  mail.  It  would  have 
been  a  pleasant  job  to  go  down  by  that  on 
such  a  night,  and  have  to  walk  home  through 
a  pond.  I  was  obliged  to  sle^p  in  town  after 
all.'" 

'•  Where  ?" 


"  Where  ?  Why,  in  your  bed  at  Boander- 
by's." 

"  Did  you  see  your  sister?" 

"  How  the  de;.ce,"  returned  Tom,  staring, 
"  could  I  see  my  sister  when  she  was  fifteen 
miles  off?" 

Cursing  these  quick  retorts  of  the  young  gen- 
tleman to  whom  he  was  so  true  a  friend,  Mr. 
Harthouse  disembarrassed  himself  of  that  in- 
terview with  the  smallest  conceivai)le  amount 
of  ceremony,  and  debated  for  the  hundredth 
time  what  all  this  could  mean  ?  He  made  only 
one  thing  clear.  It  was,  that  whether  she  was 
in  town  or  out  of  town,  whether  he  had  been 
premature  with  her  who  was  so  hard  tu  c(>mpre- 
heud,  or  she  had  lost  courage,  or  they  were  dis- 
covered, or  some  mischance  or  mistake  at  pre- 
sent incomprehensible  had  occurred — he  must 
remain  to  confront  his  fortune,  whatever  it 
was.  The  hotel  where  he  was  known  to  live 
when  condemned  to  that  region  of  blackness, 
was  the  stake  to  which  he  was  tied.  As  to  all 
the  rest — What  will  be,  will  be. 

"  So,  whether  I  am  waiting  for  a  hostile 
message,  or  an  assignation,  or  a  penitent  re- 
monstrance, or  an  impromptu  wrestle  with  my 
friend  Bounderby  in  the  Lancashire  manner 
— which  would  seem  as  likely  as  anything  else 
in  the  present  state  ot  affairs — I'll  dine,"  said 
Mr.  James  Harthouse.  "Bounderby  has  the 
advantage  in  point  of  weight;  anxl  if  anything 
of  a  British  nature  is  to  come  off  between  us, 
it  may  as  well  to  be  in  training." 

Therefore  he  rang  the  bell,  and  tossing 
himself  negligently  on  a  sofa,  ordered  "Some 
dinner  at  six,  with  a  beefsteak  in  it,"  and  got 
through  the  intervening  time  as  well  as  he 
could.  That  was  not  particularly  well,  for 
he  remained  in  the  greatest  perplexity,  and 
as  the  hours  went  on,  and  no  kind  of  explana- 
tion ottered  itself,  his  perplexity  augmented  at 
compound  interest. 

However,  he  took  affairs  as  coolly  a.<»  it  was 
in  human  nature  to  do,  and  entertained  him- 
self with  the  facetious  idea  of  the  training  more 
than  once.  "  It  wouldn't  be  bad,''  he  j-awned 
at  one  time,  "  to  give  the  waiter  five  shillings 
and  throw  him."  At  another  time  it  occurred 
to  him,  "Or  a  fellow  of  about  thirteen  or  four- 
teen btone  might  be  hired  by  the  hour."  But 
these  jests  did  not  tell  materially  on  the  after- 
noon or  his  suspense;  and,  sooth  to  say,  they 
both  lagged  fearfully. 

It  was  impossible,  even  before  dinner,  to 
avoid  of  en  walking  about  in  the  patterns  of 
the  carpet,  looking  out  of  the  window,  listen- 
ing at  the  do')r  for  footsteps,  and  occasionally 
becoming  rather  hot  when  they  approached 
that  room.  But  after  dinner,  when  the  day 
turned  to  twilight,  and  the  twilight  turned  to 
•Mglif,  and  still  no  communication  was  made 
to  him,  it  began  to  be,  as  he  expressed  it, 
"uncommonly  like  the  Holy  Ollice  and  slow 
torture."  However,  still  true  to  his  conviction 
that  coolness  was  the  genuine  hi^h-breeding, 
(the  only  conviction   he   had,)   he  seiiied  this 


164 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


crisis  as  the  opportunity  for  ordering  candles 
and  a  newspaper. 

He  had  been  trying  in  vain,  for  half  an 
hour,  to  read  this  newspaper,  when  the  waiter 
appeared,  and  said,  at  once  mysteriously  and 
apologetically, 

"  Beg  your  pardon  sir.  You're  wanted  sir, 
if  you  please." 

A  general  recollection  that  this  was  the  sort 
of  thing  the  Police  said  to  the  swell  mob,  caus- 
ed Mr.  Harthouse  to  ask  the  waiter  in  return, 
with  bristling  indignation,  what  the  Devil  he 
meant  by  "  wanted  ?" 

— "  ^"-'o  y^ui"  pardon,  sir.  Young  lady  out- 
side, sir,  wished  to  see  you." 

"  Outside  ?     Where  ?" 

"Outside  this  door,  sir." 

Giving  the  waiter  to  the  personage  before 
mentioned,  as  a  blockhead  duly  qualified  for 
that  consignment,  Mr.  Harthouse  hurried 
into  the  gallery.  A  young  woman  whom  he 
had  never  seen  stood  there.  Plainly  dressed, 
very  quiet,  very  pretty.  As  he  conducted  her 
into  the  ronm  and  placed  a  chair  for  her,  he 
observed  by  the  light  of  the  candles,  that  she 
was  even  prettier  than  he  had  at  tirst  believed. 
Her  face  was  innocent  and  youthful,  and  its 
expression  remarkably  pleb,sant.  She  was  not 
afraid  of  him,  or  in  any  way  disconcerted  ;  she 
seemed  to  have  her  mind  entirely  pre-oc- 
cupied  with  t^o  occasion  of  her  visit,  and  to 
have  substituted  that  couhideration  for  herself. 

"  I  speak  to  Mr.  Harthouse  ?"  she  said,  when 
they  were  alone. 

"  To  Mr.  Harthouse. "  He  added  in  his 
mind — "  And  you  speak  to  him  with  the  most 
confiding  eyes  I  ever  saw,  and  the  most 
earnest  voice  (though  so  quiet)  I  ever  heard." 

"  If  I  do  not  understand — and  I  do  not,  sir  " 
— said  Sissy,"  whatyour  honor  as  a  gentleman 
binds  you  to,  in  other  matters :"  the  blood  real- 
ly rose  in  his  face  as  she  began  in  these  words: 
"  I  am  sure  I  may  rely  upon  it  to  keep  my  visit 
secret,  and  what  I  am  going  to  say.  I  will  rely 
upon  it,  if  you  will  tell  me  I  may  so  far  trust 
you.  '■ 

"  You  may,  I  asure  you.  " 

"  I  am  young,  as  you  see ;  I  am  alone,  as 
you  see.  In  coming  to  you,  sir,  I  have  no 
advice  or  encouragement  beyond  my  own 
hope.  " 

He  thought,  "  But  that  is  very  strong,"  as 
he  followed  the  momentary  upward  glance  of 
her  eyes.  He  thought  besides,  "  'i  his  is  a 
very  odd  beginning.  I  don't  see  where  we  are 
g«ing." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Sissy,  "  you  have  already 
guessed  whom  I  left  just  now?" 

"  I  have  been  in  the  greatest  concern  and 
uneasiness  during  the  last  four-and  twenty 
hours  (which  have  appeared  as  many  years)," 
he  returned,  "on  a  lady's  account.  The 
hopes  I  have  been  eiicourasred  to  tbrm  that 
you  come  from  that  lady  do  not  deceive  me,  1 
trust." 

"  I  left  her  within  an  hour." 

"So  lately  I     At ?" 


"At her  father's." 

Mr.  Harthouse's  face  lengthened  in  spite  ot 
his  coolness,  and  his  perplexity  increased. 
"  Then  I  certainly,"  he  thought,  "  do  not  see 
where  we  are  going." 

"  She  hurried  there  last  night.  She  arrived 
there  in  great  agitation,  and  was  insensible 
all  through  the  night.  I  live  at  her  father's, 
and  was  with  her.  You  may  be  sure,  sir, 
you  will  never  see  her  again  as  long  as  you 
live." 

Mr.  Harthouse  drew  a  long  breath,  and,  if 
ever  man  found  himself  in  the  position  of  not 
knowing  what  to  say,  made  the  discovery 
beyond  all  question  that  he,  James  Hart- 
house, was  so  circumstanced.  The  child -like 
ingenuousness  with  which  his  visiter  spoke, 
her  modest  fearlessness,  her  truthfulness, 
which  put  all  artifice  aside,  her  entire  for- 
getfulness  of  herself  in  the  earnest,  quiet,  hold- 
ing to  the  object  with  which  she  had  come; 
all  this,  together  with  her  reliance  on  his  eas- 
ily-given promise,  which  in  itself  shamed  him 
— presented  something  in  which  he  was  so  in- 
experienced, and  against  which  he  knew  his 
usual  weapons  would  fall  so  powerless;  that 
not  a  word  could  he  rally  to  his  relief. 

At  last  he  said: 

"So  startling  an  announcement,  so  confi- 
dently made,  and  by  such  lips,  is  really  dis- 
concerting in  the  last  degree.  May  I  be  per- 
mitted to  inqure  if  you  are  charged  to  convey 
that  information  to  me  in  those  hopeless  words 
by  the  lady  of  whom  we  speak  ?" 

"1  have  no  charge  from  her.  " 

"  The  drowning  man  catches  at  the  straw. 
With  no  disrespect  for  your  judgment,  and  with 
no  doubt  of  your  sincerity,  excuse  my  saying 
that  I  cling  to  the  belief  that  there  is  yet  hupe 
that  I  am  not  condemned  to  perpetual  exile 
from  that  lady's  presence.  " 

"  There  is  not  the  least  hope.  The  first  ob- 
ject of  my  coming  here,  sir,  is  to  assure  you 
that  you  must  believe  that  there  is  no  more 
hope  ofyour  ever  speaking  with  her  again  than 
there  would  be  if  she  had  died  when  she  came 
home  last  night." 

"  Must  believe  ?  But  if  I  can't — or  if  I 
should,  by  infirmity  ef  nature,  be  obstinate — 
and  won't — " 

"  It  is  still  true.     There  is  no  hope." 

James  Harthouse  looked  at  her  with  an  in- 
credulous smile  upon  his  lips,  but  her  mind 
looked  over  and  beyond  him,  and  the  smile 
w.  s  quite  thrown  away. 

He  bit  his  lip.  and  took  a  little  time  for 
consideration. 

"If  it  should  unhappily  appear,"  he  said, 
"after  due  pains  and  duty  on  my  part,  that  I 
am  brought  to  a  position  so  desolate  as  this 
banishment,  I  shall  not  become  the  lady's  per- 
secutor. But  you  said  you  had  no  commission 
from  her." 

"I  have  only  the  commission  of  my  love 
for  her,  and  her  love  for  me.  I  have  no 
other  trust  than  that  I  have  been  with  her 
since  she  fled  home,  and  that  she  has  given  me 


HARD  TIMES. 


165 


hcj  confidence.  T  have  no  further  trust  than 
thai  I  know  something  of  her  character  and 
her  marriage.  O,  Mr.  Harthouse,  I  thiuk  you 
had  that  trust  too." 

He  was  touched  in  the  cavity  where  his 
heart  should  have  been,  in  that  nest  of  addled 
ejj^s,  where  the  birds  of  heaven  would  have 
lived  if  they  had  not  been  whistled  away  by 
the  simple  fervor  of  this  reproach. 

"  I  am  not  a  moral  sort  of  lellow,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  never  make  any  pretensions  to  the 
character  of  a  moral  sort  of  fellow.  I  am  as 
immoral  as  need  be,  I  dare  say.  At  the  same 
ti'ue,  in  bringing  any  distress  upon  the  lady 
who  is  the  subject  of  the  present  conversation, 
or  in  unfortunately  comprumising  her  in  any 
way;  or  in  committing  myst-lf  by  any  ex- 
pression of  sentiments  towards  her,  not  per- 
fectly reconcilable  with — the  domestic  hearth; 
or  in  taking  any  advantage  of  her  father's 
being  a  machine,  or  of  hnr  brother's  being  a 
whelp,  er  of  her  husband's  being  a  bear;  I 
beg  to  be  allowed  to  assure  you  that  I  have 
had  no  particular  evil  intentions,  but  have 
glided  on  from  one  step  to  another  with  a 
bmoothness  so  entirely  diabolical  that  I  had 
not  the  slightest  idea  the  catalogue  was  half 
so  long  until  T  began  to  turn  it  over.  When 
I  nnd,"  said  Mr.  James  Harthouse,  in 
conclusion,  "that  it  is  in  several  volumes." 

Though  he  said  all  this  in  his  frivolous 
way,  the  way  seemed,  for  that  once,  a  con- 
scious polishing  of  but  an  ugly  surface.  He 
was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  proceeded 
with  a  more  courtly  air,  though  with  traces  of 
vexation  and  disappointment  that  would  not 
be  polished  out: 

''After  what  has  been  just  now  represented 
to  me  in  a  manner  I  find  it  impossible  to  doubt 
— I  really  knuw  of  hardly  any  other  source 
from  which  I  could  have  accepted  it  so  readi- 
ly— I  feel  bound  to  say  to  you  in  whom  the 
confidence  you  have  mentioned,  has  been  re- 
pused,  that  I  cannot  refuse  to  contemplate  the 
pussiijility  (however  unexpected)  of  my  seeing 
the  lady  no  more.  I  am  solely  to  blame  for 
the  thing  having  come  to  this — and — and  I 
cannot  say,"  he  added,  rather  bard  up  for  a 
general  peror?tiun,  "  tha:  I  have  any  sanguine 
expectations  of  ever  becoming  a  moral  sort  of 
fellow,  or  that  I  have  any  belief  in  any  moral 
Sort  of  fellow,  anvwhere." 

Sissj's  face  sufficiently  showed  that  her  ap- 
peiil  til  him  was  not  finished. 

*' Yiiu  spoke,"  he  resumed,  as  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  him  again,  "of  your  first  object.  I 
may  assume  that  there  is  a  setoud  to  be  men- 
tioned?" 

"  Yes  " 

"  Will  vou  oblige  me  by  confiding  i:?" 

"  Mr.  Harthouse,"  returned  Sissy,  with  a 
blending  of  gentleness  and  steadiness  that 
quite  dtfeated  him,  and  with  a  perfect  con- 
fidence in  his  l>eing  bouivd  to  do  what  she 
required,  that  held  him  at  a  singular  disad- 
vantage, "the  only  reparation  that  remains 
with  }ou,  is  to   leave   here   immediately,  and 


finally.  I  am  qnite  sure  that  you  can  miti- 
gate in  no  other  way  the  wrong  and  harm  you 
have  done.  I  am  quite  sure  that  it  is  the  only 
compensation  you  have  left  in  your  power  to 
make.  I  do  not  say  that  it  is  much  or  that  it 
is  enough,  but  it  is  something,  and  it  is  neces- 
sary. Therefore,  though  without  any  other 
authority  than  I  have  given  you,  and  even 
without  the  knowledge  uf  any  other  person 
than  yourself  and  myself,  I  ask  you  to  depart 
from  this  place  to  night  under  an  obligation 
never  to  return  to  it." 

If  she  had  asserted  any  influence  over  him 
beyond  her  simple  faith  in  the  truth  and 
right  of  what  she  said  ;  if  she  had  concealed 
the  least  doubt  or  irresolution,  or  had  har- 
bored for  the  best  purpose  any  reserve  or 
pretence;  if  she  had  shown  or  ielt  the  litrhi- 
est  trace  of  any  sensitiveness  to  his  ridicule, 
or  his  astonishment,  or  any  temonstrance  he 
might  ofFer,  he  would  have  carried  it  against 
her  at  this  point.  But  he  could  as  easily  have 
changed  a  clear  sky  by  looking  at  it  in  sur- 
prise as  affect  her. 

"But  do  you  know,"  he  asked,  quite  at  a 
loss,  "the  extent  of  what  you  ask  ?  You  pro- 
bably are  not  aware  that  I  am  hereon  a  public 
kind  of  business,  preposterous  enough  in  itself, 
but  which  I  have  gone  in  for,  and  sworn  by, 
and  am  supposed  to  be  devoted  to  in  quite  a 
desperate  manner?  You  probably  are  not 
aware  of  that,  but  I   assure  you  it's  the  fact." 

It  had  no  effect  on  Sissy,  fact  or  no  fact. 

"Besides  which,"  said  Mr.  Harthouse,  taking 
a  turn  or  two  across  the  room,  and  biting  his 
nails  dubiously,  "it's  so  alarmingly  absurd.  It 
would  make  a  man  so  ridiculous,  after  going 
in  for  these  fellows,  to  back  out  in  such  an  un- 
accountable way." 

"  I  am  quite  sure,"  repeated  Sissy,  "  that  it 
is  the  only  reparation  in  your  power,  sir.  I 
aip  quite  sure,  or  I  would  not  have  come  here."' 

He  glanced  at  her  face,  and  walked  abotit 
a^ain.  "Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know  what  to 
say.     So  immensely  absurd  !" 

It  fell  to  his  lot,  now,  to  stipulate  fi)r  secresy. 
"  If  I  were  to  do  such  a  very  ridiculous  thing," 
he  said,  stopping  again  presently,  and  leaning 
against  the  chimney-piece,  "it  could  only  be  iu 
the  most  inviolable  confidence." 

"  I  will  trust  to  you,  sir,"  returned  Sissy, 
"  and  you  will  trust  to  me." 

His  leaning  against  the  chimney  piece  re- 
minded him  of  the  night  with  the  whelp.  It 
was  the  self-same  chimney-piece,  and  somehow 
he  felt  as  if  he  were  the  whelp  to-night.  He 
could  make  no  way  at  all. 

"  I  supposp  a  man  never  was  placed  in  a 
more  ridiculous  position,"  he  said,  after  look- 
ing down,  and  looking  up,  and  langding,  and 
frowning,  and  walking  otf,  and  walking  back 
again.  "'  But  I  see  no  wav  out  of  it.  What 
will  be,  will  be.  T}iis  will  be,  I  suppose.  I 
must  take  oflF  myself,  1  imagine — in  short,  I 
engai.'e  to  do  it." 

Sissy  rose.     She  was  not  surprised  by  the 


165 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


result,  but  she  was  happy  in  it,  and  her  face 
beamed  brightly. 

"You  will  permit  me  to  say,"  continued 
Mr.  James  Ilarlhouse,  "that  I  doubt  if  any 
other  ambassador,  or  ambassadress,  could 
have  addressed  me  at  the  same  advantage. — 
I  must  not  only  regard  myself  as  being  in  a 
very  ridiculous  position,  but  as  being  van- 
quished at  all  points.  Will  you  allow  me  the 
privilege  of  remembering  my  enemy's  name.^" 

"  My  name  ?"  said  the  ambassadress,  blush- 
ing. 

"  The  only  name  I  could  possibly  care  to 
know  tonight." 

"Sissy  Jupe." 

"  Pardon  my  curiosity  at  parting.  Related 
to  the  family?" 

"  I  nm  only  a  poor  girl,"  returned  Sissy. 
"I  was  separated  from  my  lather — he  was  only 
a  stroller — and  taken  pity  on  by  Mr.  Grad- 
grind.     I  have  lived  in  the  house  ever  since." 

She  was  gone. 

"It  wanted  this  to  complete  the  defeat," 
said  Mr.  James  Harthouse,  sinking,  with  a 
resigned  air,  on  the  sofa,  after  standing  trans- 
fixed a  little  while,  "and  now  it  may  be  con 
sidered  periectly  accomplished.  Only  a  poor 
girl — only  a  stroller — only  James  Harthouse 
Boored — only  James  Harthouse  a  Great  Pyra- 
mid of  failure." 

The  Great  Pyramid  put  it  into  his  head  to 
go  up  the  Nile.  He  took  a  pen  upon  the  in- 
Blaiit,  and  wrote  the  following  note  (in  appro- 
priate hieroglyphics)  to  his  brother  : 

Dear  Jack, — All  up  at  Coketown.  Bored 
out  of  the  place,  and  going  in  for  camels.  Af- 
fectionately, Jem. 

He  rang  the  bell. 

"  Send  my  fellow  here." 

"Gone  to  bed  sir." 

"  Tell  him  to  get  up  and  pack  up." 

He  wrote  two  more  notes.  One,  to  Mr. 
Bounderby,  announcing  his  retirement  from 
that  part  of  the  country,  and  showing  where 
be  would  be  found  for  the  next  fortnight.  The 
other,  similar  in  effect,  to  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

Almost  as  soon  as  the  ink  was  dry  upon 
their  superscriptions,  he  had  left  the  tall  chim- 
neys of  Coketown  behind,  and  was  in  a  railway 
carriage,  tearing  and  glaring  over  the  dark 
landscape. 

The  moral  sort  of  fellows  might  suppose 
that  Mr.  James  Harthouse  derived  some  com- 
fortable reflections  thereafter  from  this  prompt 
retreat,  as  one  of  his  few  actions  that  made 
any  amends  for  anything,  and  as  a  token  to 
himself  that  he  had  escaped  the  climax  of  a 
very  bad  business.  But  it  was  not  so,  at  all. 
A  secret  sense  of  having  failed  and  made  him- 
self ridiculous;  a  dread  of  what  other  fellows 
who  went  in  for  similar  sorts  of  things,  would 
say  at  his  expense  if  they  knew  it,  so  oppressed 
him,  that  what  was  about  the  best  passatte  in 
his  life  was  the  one  of  ail  others  he  would  not 
have  owned  to,  and  that  often  made  him  quite 
ashamed  of  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

The  indefatigable  Mr.  Sparsit,  with  a  vio- 
lent cold  upon  her,  her  voice  reduced  to  a 
whisper,  and  her  stalely  frame  so  racked  by 
continual  sneezes  that  it  seemed  in  danger  of 
dismemberment,  gave  chase  to  her  j  atron 
until  she  lound  him  in  the  nietrcij)olis;  and 
there  sweeping  in  upon  him  ai  his  hotel  in 
St.  James's  Street,  exploded  the  ccmbustibles 
with  which  she  was  charged,  and  blew  up. 
Having  executed  her  mission  with  infinite 
relish,  this  high-min'led  woman  then  fainted 
away  on  Mr.  Bounderby's  coat-collar. 

Mr.  Bounderby's  fir^t  procedure  was  to 
shake  Mrs.  Sparsit  off,  and  leave  her  to  pro- 
gress as  she  might  througii  various  stages  of 
suffering  on  the  floor.  He  next  had  resource 
to  the  administration  of  potent  restoratives, 
such  as  screwing  the  patient's  thumbs,  smiting 
her  hands,  abundantly  watering  her  face,  and 
inserting  salt  in  her  mouth.  When  these  at- 
tentions had  recovered  her  (which  they  sjieed- 
ily  did),  he  hustled  her  into  a  fast  train  without 
any  other  refreshments,  and  carried  her  back 
to  Coketown  more  dead  than  alive. 

Regarded  as  a  classical  ruin,  Mrs.  Sparsit 
was  an  interesting  spectacle  on  her  arrival 
at  her  journey's  end  ;  but  considered  in  any 
other  light,  the  amount  of  damage  she  had  by 
that  time  sustained  was  excessive,  and  impair- 
ed her  claims  to  admiration.  Utterly  heedless 
of  the  wear  and  tear  of  her  clothes  and  con- 
stitution, and  adamant  to  her  pathetic  sneezes, 
Mr.  Bounderby  immediately  crammed  her  into 
a  coach,  and  bore  her  off  to  Stone  Lodge. 

"Now,  Tom  Gradgrind,"  said  Bounderby, 
bursting  into  his  father  in-law's  room  late  at 
night;  "here's  a  lady  here — Mrs.  Sparsit — 
you  know  Mrs.  ^parsit — who  has  something 
to  make  known'  to  you  that  will  strike  you 
dumb." 

"  You  have  missed  my  letter!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Gradgrind,  surprised  by  the  apparition. 

"Misled  your  letter,  sir!"  bawled  Bounder- 
by. "The  present  time  is  no  time  for  letters. 
No  man  shall  talk  to  Josiah  Bounderby  of 
Coketown  about  letters  with  his  mind  in  the 
state  it's  in  now." 

"Bounderby,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  in  a  tone 
of  temperate  remonstrance.  "  I  speak  of  a 
very  special  letter  I  have  written  to  you,  in 
reference  to  Louisa." 

"  Tom  Gradgrind,"  replied  Bounderby, 
knocking  the  flat  of  his  hand  several  times 
with  great  vehemence  on  the  table,  "  I  speak 
of  a  very  special  messenger  that  has  come  to 
me  in  reterence  to  Louisa.  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
ma'am,  stand  forward." 

That  unfortunate  lady  hereupon  essaying 
to  offer  testimony  without  any  voice,  and  with 
painful  gestures  expressive  of  an  inflamed 
throat,  became  so  aggravating  and  undf-rwent 
so  many  facial  contortions,  that  Mr.  Bounder- 
by, unable  to  bear  it,  seized  her  by  the  aim 
and  shook  her. 

"If  you  can't  get  it  out,  ma'am,"  said  Bouu- 


HARD  TIMES. 


167 


derby,  "leave  me  to  get  it  out.  This  is  not  a 
time  for  a  lady,  however  highly  connected,  to 
be  totally  inaudible  and  seemingly  swallowing 
marbles.  Tom  Gradgrind,  Mrs.  Sparsit  latter- 
ly found  herself  by  accident  in  a  situation  to 
overhear  a  conversation  out  of  doors  between 
your  daughter  and  your  precious  gentleman- 
friend,  Mr.  James  Harthouse." 

"Indeed?"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"Ah!  Indeed  1"  cried  Bounderby.  "And  in 
that  conversation " 

"  It  is  not  necessary  to  repeat  its  tenor, 
Bounderby.     I  know  what  passed." 

"  You  do  ?  Perhaps,"  said  Bounderby, 
staring  with  all  his  might  at  his  so  quiet  and 
assuasive  father-in-law,  "you  know  where  your 
dauiJrhter  is  at  the  present  time  !" 

"  Undoubtedly.     She  is  here." 

"  Here  ?" 

"  My  dear  Bounderby,  let  me  beg  you  to 
restrain  these  loud  outbreaks,  on  all  accounts. 
Louisa  is  here.  The  moment  she  could  de- 
tach herself  from  that  interview  with  the 
person  of  whom  you  speak,  and  whom  I 
deeply  regret  to  have  been  the  means  of  in 
troducing  to  you,  Louisa  hurried  here,  for 
protection.  I  myself  had  not  been  at  home 
many  hours,  when  I  received  her — here  in  this 
room.  She  hurried  by  the  train  to  town,  she 
ran  from  town  to  this  house  through  a  raging 
Btorra,  and  presented  herself  before  me  in  a 
state  of  distraction.  Of  course,  she  has  re- 
mained here  ever  since.  Let  me  entreat  you, 
for  your  own  sake  and  for  hers  too,  to  be  more 
quiet." 

Mr.  Bounderby  silently  gazed  about  him  for 
some  moments  in  every  direction  except  Mrs. 
Sparsit's  direction,  and  then  abruptly  turning 
upon  the  niece  of  Lady  Scadgers,  said  to  that 
wretched  woman : 

"  Now,  ma'am  !  We  shall  be  happy  to  hear 
any  little  apology  you  may  think  proper  to 
offer,  for  going  about  the  country  at  express 
pace,  with  no  other  luggage  than  a  Cock  and 
a  Bull,  ma'am." 

"  Sir,"  whispered  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "  my  nerves 
are  at  present  too  much  shaken,  and  my  health 
is  at  present  tco  much  impaired,  in  your  ser- 
vice, to  admit  of  my  doing  more  than  taking 
refuge  in  tears." 

Which  she  did. 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  said  Bounderby,  "  with- 
oiJt  making  any  observation  to  you  that  may 
Bot  be  made  with  propriety  to  a  woman  of 
good  family,  what  I  have  got  to  add  to  that, 
is,  that  there's  something  else  in  which  it 
appears  to  me  you  may  take  refuge,  namely, 
a  coach.  And  the  coach  in  which  we  came 
here,  being  at  the  dour,  you'll  allow  me  to 
hand  you  down  to  it  and  pack  )ou  home  to 
the  Bank  :  where  the  best  course  for  you  to 
pursue,  will  be  to  put  your  feet  into  the  hottest 
water  you  can  bear,  and  take  a  glass  of  scald- 
ing rum  and  butter  after  you  get  into  bed." 
With  these  words  Mr.  Bounderliy  extended 
his  right  hand  to  the  weeping  lady  and  escort- 
ed her  to  the  conveyance  in  question,  shedding 


many  plaintive  sneezes  by  the  way.  He  soon 
returned  alone. 

"Now,  as  you  showed  me  in  your  face, 
Tom  Gradgrind,  that  you  wanted  to  speak  to 
me,"  he  resumed,  "  here  I  am.  But  1  am  not 
in  a  very  agreeable  state,  I  tell  you  plainly, 
not  relishing  this  business  even  as  it  is,  and 
not  considering  that  1  am  at  any  time  as 
dutifully  and  submissively  treated  by  your 
daughter  as  Josiah  Bounderby  of  Coketown 
ought  to  be  treated  by  his  wife.  You  have 
your  opinion,  I  dare  say ;  and  1  have  mine,  I 
know.  It  you  mean  to  say  anything  to  me  to- 
night, that  goes  against  tliis  candid  remark, 
you  had  better  leave  it  alone." 

Mr.  Gradgrind,  it  will  be  observed,  being 
much  softened,  Mr.  Bounderby  took  particular 
pains  to  harden  himself  at  all  points.  It  was 
his  amiable  nature. 

"My  dear  Bounderby,"  Mr.  Gradgrind  be- 
gan in  reply. 

"Now,  you'll  excuse  me,"  said  Bounderby, 
"but  I  don't  want  to  be  too  dear.  That  to 
start  with.  When  I  begin  to  be  dear  to  a  man, 
I  generally  find  that  his  intention  is  to  come 
over  me.  I  am  not  speaking  to  you  politely  ; 
but,  as  you  are  aware,  I  am  not  polite.  If 
you  like  politeness,  you  know  where  to  get  iu 
You  have  your  gentlemen  fiiends  you  know, 
and  they'll  serve  you  with  as  much  of  the 
article  as  you  want.     I  don't  keep  it  myself." 

"  Bounderby,"  urged  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  we 
are  all  liable  to  mistakes " 

"I  thought  you  couldn't  make  'em,"  inter- 
rupted Bounderby. 

"  Perhaps  I  thought  so.  But,  I  say  we  are 
all  liable  to  mistakes;  and  I  should  leel  sensi- 
ble of  your  delicacy,  and  really  grateful  ior  it, 
if  you  would  spare  me  these  references  to 
Harthouse.  I  shall  not  associate  him  m  our 
conversation  with  your  intimacy  and  en- 
couragement; pray  uo  not  persist  in  connect- 
ing him  with  mine." 

"  I  never  mentioned  his  name  I"  said  Boun- 
derby. 

"Well,  well  1"  returned  Mr.  Gradgrind,  with 
a  patient,  even  a  submissive,  air.  And  he  sat 
for  a  little  while  pondering.  "Bounderby,  I 
see  reason  to  doubt  whether  we  liave  ever 
quite  understood  Louisa." 

"Who  do  you  mean  by  W^e?" 

"Let  me  say,  I,  then,"  he  returned,  in  answer 
to  the  coarsely  blurted  question;  "I  du«lit 
whether  I  have  understood  Louisa.  I  douht 
whether  I  have  been  quite  right  in  the  manner 
of  her  education." 

"  There  you  hit  it,"  returned  Bounderby. 
"There  I  agree  with  you.  You  have  found  it 
out  at  last,  have  you?  Education  I  I'll  tell 
you  what  education  is — To  be  tumbled  out  uf 
doors,  neck  and  crop,  and  put  upon  the  short- 
est allowance  of  everything  except  blows. 
That's  what  /call  education." 

"  I  think  your  good  sense  will  perceive," 
Mr.  Gradgrind  remonstrated  in  all  humility, 
"  that  whatever  the   merits   of  such  u  system 


168 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


may  be,  it  would  be  difficult  of  general  appli- 
cation to  girls." 

"  I  don't  see  it  at  all,  sir,"  returned  the  ob- 
stinate Bounderby. 

"  Well,"  sighed  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  we  will  not 
enter  into  the  question.  I  assure  you  I  have 
no  desire  to  be  controversial.  I  seek  to  repair 
what  is  amiss  if  I  possibly  can,  and  I  hope 
you  will  assist  nie  in  a  good  spirit,  Bounderby, 
for  I  have  been  very  much  distressed." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  yet,"  said  Boun- 
derby, with  determined  oljstinacy,  "and  there- 
fore 1  won't  make  any  promises." 

"  In  the  course  of  a  few  hours,  my  dear 
Bounderby,"  Mr.  Gradgrind  proceeded,  in  the 
same  depressed  and  propitiatory  manner,  "1 
appear  to  myself  to  have  become  better  in- 
formed as  to  Louisa's  character  than  in  all 
previous  years.  The  enlightenment  has  been 
painfully  forced  upon  me,  and  the  discovery  is 
not  mine.  I  think  there  are — Bounderby,  you 
will  be  surprised  to  hear  me  say  this — I  think 
there  are  imaginative  qualities  in  Louisa, 
which — which  have  been  hardly  dealt  with, 
and  —  and  a  little  perverted.  And — and  I 
would  snjTgest  to  you,  that — that  if  you  would 
kindly  meet  me  in  a  timely  endeavor  to  leave; 
her  to  her  better  nature  for  a  while — and  to 
encourage  it  to  develop  itself  by  tenderness 
and  c(nisideration — it — it  would  be  better 
for  ihe  happiness  of  all  of  us.  Louisa,"  said 
Mr.  Gradjirind,  shading  his  face  with  his  hand, 
'"has  always  been  my  favorite  child." 

The  blustrous  Bounderby  crimsoned  and 
swelled  to  such  an  extent  on  hearing  these 
words,  that  he  seemed  to  be,  and  probably  was, 
on  the  brink  of  a  fit.  With  his  very  ears  a 
bright  purple  shot  with  crimson,  he  put  up  his 
indiifUHtiuti,  however,  and  said: 

"Yuu'd  like  to  keep  her  here  for  a  time?" 

*"I — I  had  intended  to  recommend,  my  dear 
Bounderby,  that  you  should  allow  Louisa  to 
remain  here  on  a  visit,  and  be  attended  by 
i-issy  (I  mean  of  course  Cecilia  Jupe),  who  un- 
derstands her,  and  in  whom  she  trusts." 

"I  {rather  from  all  this,  Tom  Gradgrind," 
said  Bounderby,  standing  up  with  his  hands  in 
his  puckers,  "that  you  are  of  opinion  there's 
what  people  call  some  incompatibility  between 
Loo  Bounderby  and  myself" 

"I  fear  there  is  at  present  a  general  incom- 
patibility between  Louisa,  and — and — and  al- 
most all  the  relations  in  which  I  have  placed 
her,"  was  her  father's  sorrowful  reply. 

"Now  look  you  here,  Tom  Gradgrind," 
said  Bounderby  the  flushed,  confronting  him 
with  his  legs  wide  apart,  his  hands  deeper  in  his 
puckets,  liis  hair  like  a  hay  field  wherein  his 
windv  anger  was  boisterous.  "  You  have  said 
your  say,  I  am  going  to  say  mine.  I  am  a 
^  iiketown  man.  I  am  Josiah  Bounderby  of 
Coketuwn.  1  know  the  bricks  of  this  town, 
and  I  know  t*  e  works  of  this  town,  and  I 
know  the  chimneys  of  this  town,  and  I  know 
the  smoke  of  this  town,  and  I  knowthe  Hands 
of  this  town.     1    know  'tm   all  pretty  well. — 


They're  real.  When  a  man  tells  me  anything 
about  imaginative  qualities,  I  always  tell  that 
man,  whoever  he  is,  that  I  know  what  he 
means.  He  means  turtle-soup  and  venison, 
with  a  gold  spoon,  and  that  he  wants  to  be  set 
up  with  a  coach  and  six.  That's  what  your 
daughter  wants.  Since  you  are  of  opinion 
that  she  ought  to  have  what  she  wants,  I 
recommend  you  to  provide  it  for  her.  Be- 
cause, Tom  Gradgrind,  she  will  never  have  it 
from  me." 

"Bounderby,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  ''I 
hoped,  after  my  entreaty,  you  would  have 
taken  a  different  tone." 

"Just  wait  a  bit,"  retorted  Bounderby, 
"  you  have  said  your  say,  I  believe.  I  heard 
you  out ;  hear  me  out  if  you  please.  Don't 
make  yourself  a  spectacle  of  unfairness  as 
well  as  inconsistency,  because,  although  I  am 
sorry  to  see  Tom  Gradgrind  reduced  to  his 
present  position,  I  should  be  doubly  sorry  to 
see  him  brought  so  low  as  that.  Now,  there's 
an  incompatibility  of  some  sort  or  another,  I 
am  given  to  understand  by  you,  between  your 
daughter  and  me.  I'll  give  you  to  understand, 
in  reply  to  that,  that  there  unquestionably  is 
an  incompatibility  of  the  first  magnitude  to  be 
summed  up  in  this — that  your  daut^hter  don't 
properly  know  her  husband's  merits,  and  is 
not  impressed  with  such  a  sense  as  would  be- 
come her,  by  George  1  of  the  honor  of  his  al- 
liance.    That's  plain  speaking,  I  hope." 

"  Bounderby,"  urged  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "this 
is  unreasonable." 

"Is  it  ?"  said  Bounderby.  "I  am  glad  to  hear 
you  say  so.  Because  when  Tom  Gradgrind, 
with  hit  new  lights,  tells  me  that  what  I  say  is 
unreasonable,  I  am  corivinced  at  once  that  it 
must  be  devilish  sensible.  With  your  permis- 
sion I  am  going  on.  You  know  my  origin, 
and  you  know  that  for  a  good  many  years  of 
my  life  I  didn't  want  a  shoeing-horn  in  conse- 
quence of  not  having  a  shoe.  Yet  you  may 
believe  or  not,  as  you  think  proper,  that  ther« 
are  ladies — born  ladies — belonging  to  families 
— families  1—  who  next  to  worship  the  ground 
I  walk  on." 

He  discharged  this,  like  a  Rocket,  at  his 
father-in-law's  head. 

"Whereas  your  daughter,"  proceeded  Boun- 
derby, "is  far  from  being  a  born  lady.  That 
you  know,  yourself  Not  that  I  care  a  pinch 
of  candle-snuff  about  such  things,  for  you  are 
very  well  aware  I  don't ;  but  that  such  is  the 
fact,  and  you,  Tom  Gradgrind,  can't  change  it. 
Why  do  I  say  this  ?" 

"Not,  I  fear,"  observed  Mr.  Gradgrind,  in  a 
low  voice,  "to  spare  me." 

"  Hear  me  out,"  said  Bounderby,  "  and  re- 
frain from  cutting  in  till  your  turn  comes 
round.  I  say  this,  because  highly  connected 
females  have  been  astonished  to  i-ee  the  way 
in  which  your  daughter  has  conducted  her- 
self, and  to  witness  her  insensibility.  They 
have  wondered  how  I  have  suffered  it.  And 
I  wonder  myself  now,  and  I  won't  suffer  it." 

"  Bounderby,"     returned    Mr.    Gradgrind, 


HARD  TIMES. 


1G9 


rising,  "  the  less  we  say  to-night  the  better,  I 
think." 

"  Un  the  contrary,  Tom  Gradgrind,  the 
more  we  say  to-nij;ht,  the  better,  I  think. — 
That  is," — the  consideration  checked  him — 
*■•  till  I  have  said  all  I  mean  to  say,  and  then  I 
don't  care  how  soon  we  stop.  I  come  to  a 
question  that  may  shorten  the  business. — 
What  do  you  mean  by  the  proposal  you  made 
just  now  ?"' 

"  What  do  I  mean,  Bounderby?" 

"By your  visiting  proposition,"  said  Boun- 
derby, with  an  inrtexible  jerk  of  the  hay  field. 

''  I  mean  that  I  hope  you  mfiy  be  induced 
to  arrange,  in  a  friendly  manner,  for  allowing 
Louisa  a  period  of  repose  and  reflection  here, 
which  may  tend  to  a  gradual  alteration  for  the 
better  in  many  respects. 

"  To  a  softening  down  of  your  ideas  of  the 
incompatibility,"  said  Bounderby. 

*'  If  you  put  it  in  those  terms." 

''  What  made  you  think  of  this  ?"  said  Boun- 
derby. 

"  1  have  already  said,  I  fear  Louisa  has  not 
been  understood.  Is  it  asking  too  much, 
Bounderby,  that  you,  so  far  her  elder,  should 
aid  in  tryinir  to  set  her  right?  You  have  ac- 
cepted a  fireat  charge  of  her ;  you  took  her  for 
belter  f  )r  worse." 

Mr.  Bounderby  may  have  been  annoyed  by 
the  repetition  ol  his  own  words  to  Stephen  Black- 
pool, but  he  cut  the  quotation  short  with  an 
angry  start. 

"Come  1"  he  said,  "  I  don't  want  to  be  told 
about  that.  I  know  what  I  took  her  fur,  as 
Wfcdl  as  you.  Never  you  mind  what  1  took  her 
for  ;  that's  my  look  out." 

"I  was  merely  going  on  to  remark,  Boun- 
derby, that  we  may  all  be  more  or  less  in  the 
wrong,  not  even  excepting  you  ;  and  that  some 
yielding  consideration  on  your  part,  remem- 
bering the  trust  you  have  accepted,  may  not 
only  be  an  act  of  true  kitidness,  but  perhaps  a 
debt  incurred  towards  Louisa." 

"  I  think  differently,"  blustered  Bounderby, 
"I  am  going  to  finish  this  business  according 
to  my  own  opinions.  I  don't  want  to  make  a 
quarrel  of  it  with  you,  Tom  Gradgrind.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  think  it  would  be 
worthy  of  my  reputation  to  quarrel  on  such 
a  poor  subject.  Your  gentleman  friijiid,  he 
may  take  himself  off,  wherever  he  likes  best. 
If  he  falls  in  my  way,  1  shall  tell  him  my 
mind;  if  he  don't  fall  in  my  way,  I  shan't,  for 
it  won't  be  worth  my  while  to  do  it.  As  to 
your  daughter,  whom  I  made  Loo  Bounderby, 
and  might  have  done  better  by  leaving  Lijo 
Gradgrind,  if  she  don't  come  home  to-mor- 
row, by  twelve  o'clock  at  noon,  I  shall  under- 
stand that  she  prefers  to  stay  away,  and  I 
shall  send  her  wearing  apparel  and  so  forth 
over  iicre,  and  you'll  take  charge  of  her  for 
the  future.  What  I  shall  say  to  people  in  gene- 
ral, of  the  incompatibility  that  led  to  my  so 
laying  down  the  law,  will  Ik;  this.  I  am  Josiah 
Bounderby,  and  I  had  my  bringing-iip.  She's 
the  daughter  of  Tom  Gnulgrind,  and  she  had 


her  bringing-up  ;  and  the  two  horses  wouldn't 
pull  together!  I  am  firetty  well  known  to  be 
rather  an  uncomm(jii  man,  I  lielii^ve ;  aijd 
most  people  will  under-iand  fast  enough  that 
it  must  be  a  wc»*Tian  rather  out  of  the  common 
also,  who,  in  the  long  run,  would  come  up  to 
my  mark." 

"  Let  me  seriously  entreat  you  tore-consider 
this,  Bounderby,"  urged  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  be- 
fore you  commit  yourself  to  a  decision."' 

"  I  always  come  to  a  decision,"  said  Bou-n- 
derby,  tossing  his  hat  on,  "  and  whatever  I 
do,  I  do  at  once.  I  should  be  surprised  at  Tom 
Gradgrind's  addressing  such  a  remark  to  Jo- 
siah Bounderby,  of  Coketown,  knowing  what 
he  knows  of  him,  if  I  could  be  surprised  fiy 
anything  Tom  Gradgrind  did,  after  his  making 
himself  a  party  to  sentimental  humbug.  I 
have  given  you  my  decision,  and  1  liave  got  no 
more  to  say.     Good  night  1" 

So,  Mr.  Bounderby  went  home  to  his  town- 
house  to  bed.  At  five  minutes  past  twelve 
o'clock  next  day,  he  directed  Mrs.Bounderbv's 
property  to  be  carefully  packed  u()  and  sent  to 
Tom  Gradgrind's  ;  advertised  Niokil's  retreat 
for  sale  by  private  contract ;  and  resumed  a 
bachelor's  life. 


CHAPTER  XXXn. 

The  robbery  at  the  bank  had  not  languish- 
ed before,  and  did  not  cease  to  occnj)y  a  frunl 
place  in  the  attention  of  the  princi|i.il  of  ih.it 
establishment  now.  In  trustful  proof  of  his 
promptitude  and  ac  ivity,  as  a  remarkable 
man,  and  a  self  made  man,  and  a  commercial 
wonder,  more  admirable  than  Venus  who  had 
risen  out  of  the  mud  instead  of  the  sea,  he 
liked  to  show  how  little  his  doinesiic  affaira 
abated  his  business  ardor.  Consequently,  in 
the  first  few  weeks  of  his  resumed  bachelor- 
hood, he  even  advanced  upon  his  usual  dis- 
play of  lustre,  and  evt-ry  day  made  such  a 
rout  in  renewing  his  investigations  into  the 
robbery,  that  the  professional  persons  whohad 
it  in  hand  almost  wished  it  had  never  been 
committed. 

They  were  at  fault  too,  and  off  the  scenU 
Although  they  had  been  so  quiet  since  the 
first  outbreak  of  the  matter,  that  most  people 
really  did  suppose  it  to  have  been  abandoned 
as  hopeless,  nothing  new  occurred.  No  im- 
plicated man  or  woman  took  untimely  courage 
or  made  a  self  betraying  step.  More  remark- 
able yet, Stephen  Blackpool  was  not  found,  and 
the  mysterious  old  woman  remained  a  mys- 
tery. 

Things  having  come  to  this  pass,  and  show 
ing  no  latent  signs  of  stirring  beyond  it,  the 
upshot  of  Mr.  Bounderb^'s  investigations 
was,  that  he  resolved  to  hazard  a  bold  burst. 
He  drew  up  a  placard,  offering  Twenty 
Pounds  reward  for  the  apprehension  of 
Stephen  Blackpool,  suspected  of  complicity  in 
the  robbery  of  the  Coketown  Bank  on  such 
a  night  :  he  described  the  said  Stephen 
Blackpool   by   dress,   ojniplexion,    estimated 


170 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


height,  and  manner,  as  minutely  as  he  could; 
he  had  recited  how  he  had  left  the  town,  and  in 
what  direction  he  had  last  been  seen  going; 
he  had  the  whole  printed  in  great  black  letters 
on  a  staring  broadsheet ;  and  caused  the 
walls  to  be  posted  with  it  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  so  that  it  should  strike  upon  the  sight  of 
the  whole  population  at  one  blow. 

The  factory-bells  had  need  to  ring  their 
loudest  that  morning  to  disperse  the  groups  of 
workers  who  stood  in  the  tardy  daybreak, 
collected  round  the  placards,  devouring  them 
with  eagereyes.  Not  the  least  eager  of  the  eyes 
assembled  were  the  eyes  of  those  who  could 
not  read.  These  people,  as  they  listened  to 
the  triendly  voice  that  read  aloud — there  was 
always  some  such  ready  to  help  them — started 
at  the  characters  which  meant  so  much  with  a 
vague  awe  and  respect  that  would  have  been 
half  ludicrous  if  such  a  picture  of  a  Country 
as  a  suicidal  Idiot  with  its  sword  of  state  at  its 
own  heart  could  ever  be  otherwise  than  wholly 
shocking.  Many  ears  and  ey°s  were  busy  with 
a  vision  of  the  matter  of  these  placards,  among 
turning  spindles,  rattling  looms  and  whirring 
wheels,  for  hours  afterwards;  and  when  the 
Hands  cleared  out  again  into  the  streets,  there 
were  as  many  readers  as  before. 

Slackbridge,  the  delegate,  had  to  address 
his  audience  too  that  night,  and  Slackbridge 
had  obtained  a  clean  bill  from  the  printer, 
and  had  brought  it  in  his  pocket.  Oh  my 
friends  and  fellow  countrymen,  the  down- 
trodden operatives  of  Coketown,  oh  my 
fellow  brothers  and  fellow  workmen  and 
fellow  citizens  and  fellow  men,  what  a  stir 
was  there  when  Slackbridge  unfolded  what 
he  called  "that  damning  document,"  and  held 
it  up  to  the  gaze,  and  for  the  execration,  of 
the  working-man  community !  "  Oh,  my 
fellow  men,  behold  of  what  a  traitor  in  the 
camp  of  those  great  spirits  who  are  enrolled 
upon  the  holy  scroll  of  Justice  and  of  Union, 
is  appropriately  capable!  Oh  my  prostrate 
friends,  with  the  galling  yoke  of  tyrants  on 
your  necks  and  the  iron  foot  of  despotism 
treading  down  your  fallen  forms  into  the  dust 
of  the  earth,  upon  which  right  glad  would 
your  oppressors  be  to  see  you  creeping  on 
your  bellies  all  the  days  of  your  lives,  like  the 
serpent  in  the  garden — oh  my  brothers,  and 
shall  I  as  a  man  not  add  my  sisters  too,  what 
do  you  say,  now,  of  Stephen  Blackpool,  with  a 
slight  stoop  in  his  shoulders  and  about  five 
foot  seven  in  height,  as  set  forth  in  this  de- 
grading and  disgusting  document,  this  bliorht- 
ing  bill,  this  pernicious  placard,  this  abomi- 
nable advertisement ;  and  with  what  majesty 
of  denouncement,  will  you  crush  the  viper 
who  would  bring  this  stain  and  shame  upon 
the  Godlike  race  that  happily  has  cast  him 
out  for  ever  I  Yes,  ray  compatriots,  happily 
cast  him  out  and  sent  him  forth !  For  you 
remember  how  he  stood  here  before  you  on 
this  platform ;  you  remember  how,  face  to 
face  and  foot  to  foot,  I  pursued  him  through 
all  his  iutricate  windings ;  you  remember  how 


he  sneaked,  and  shunked,  and  sidled,  and 
splitted  straws,  until  with  not  an  inch  of  ground 
to  which  to  cling,  I  hurled  him  out  from 
amongst  us :  an  object  for  the  undying  finger 
of  scorn  to  point  at,  and  for  the  avenging  fire 
of  every  free  and  thinking  mind,  to  scorch  and 
slur !  And  now,  my  friends,  my  laboring  friends, 
for  I  rejoice  and  triumph  in  that  stigma,  my 
friends ;  whose  hard  but  honest  beds  are  made 
in  toi  ,  and  whose  scanty  but  independent  pots 
are  ')oiled  in  hardship  ;  and,  now  I  say,  my 
friends,  whatappellationhasthat  dastard  craven 
taken  to  himself,  when,  with  the  mask  torn 
from  his  features,  he  stands  before  us  in  all 
his  native  deformity,  a  What?  a  thief!  a 
plunderer!  a  proscribed  fugitive,  with  a  price 
upon  his  head,  a  fester  and  a  wound  upon 
the  noble  character  of  the  Coketown  opera- 
tive! Therefore,  my  band  of  brothers  in  a 
sacred  bond,  to  which  your  children  and  your 
children's  children  yet  unborn  have  set  their 
infant  hands  and  seals,  I  propose  to  you  on  the 
part  of  the  United  Aggregate  Tribunal,  ever 
watchful  for  your  welfare,  ever  zealous  for 
your  benefit,  that  this  meeting  does  Resolve: 
That  Stephen  Blackpool,  weaver,  referred  to 
in  this  placard,  having  been  already  solemnly 
disowned  by  the  community  of  Coketown 
Hands,  the  same  are  free  from  the  shame  of  his 
misdeeds,  and  cannot  as  a  class  be  reproached 
with  his  dishonest  actions  I'' 

Thus  Slackbridge  ;  gnashing  and  perspiring 
after  a  prodigious  sort.  A  lew  stern  voices 
called  out  "  No !''  and  a  score  or  two  hailed 
with  assenting  cries  of  "Hear,  hear!"  the 
caution  from  one  man,  "  Slackbridge,  y'or 
over  better  int ;  y'or  a  goen  too  fast!"  But 
these  were  pigmies  against  an  army ;  the 
general  assemblage  subscribed  to  the  gospel 
according  to  Slackbridge,  and  gave  three 
cheers  for  him,  as  he  sat  demonstratively 
panting  at  them. 

These  men  and  women  were  vet  in  the 
streets,  passing  quietly  to  their  homes,  when 
Sissy,  who  had  been  called  away  from  Louisa 
some  minutes  before,  returned. 

"  Who  is  it?"'  asked  Louisa. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Bouuderby,"  said  Sissy,  timid  of 
the  name,  "  and  jour  brother  Mr.  Tom,  and  a 
young  woman  who  says  her  name  is  Kachael, 
and  that  you  know  her." 

"What  do  they  want.  Sissy  dear?" 

"  They  want  to  see  you.  Rachael  has  been 
crving  and  seems  angry." 

"  Father,"  said  Louisa,  for  he  was  present, 
"I  cannot  refuse  to  see  them,  for  a  reason  you 
will  soon  understand.  Shall  they  come  in 
here  ?" 

As  he  answered  in  the  affirmative,  Sissy  went 
away  to  bring  them.  She  reappeared  with 
them  directly.  Tom  was  last,  and  remained 
standing  in  the  obscurest  part  of  the  room, 
near  the  door. 

'"Mrs.  Bounderby,"  said  her  husband,  enter- 
ing with  a  cool  nod,  "I  don't  disturb  you,  I 
hope.  This  is  au  unseasonable  ho\ir,  but  hpre 
is  a  young  woman  who  has  beeu  making  state- 


HARD  TIMES. 


171 


meiitg  which  render  my  visit  necessary.  Tom 
Gradgrind,  as  your  sou,  young  Tom,  refuses 
for  some  ol)stinate  reason  or  other,  to  say  any- 
thing at  all  about  those  statements,  trood  or 
bad,  I  am  obliged  to  confront  her  with  your 
daughter."' 

*•  You  have  seen  me  once  before,  young 
ladv,"  said  Rachael,  standing  in  front  of 
Louisa. 

T<im  coughed. 

'■You  have  seen  me,  young  lady,"  repeated 
Rachiiel,  as  .she  did  not  answer,  ''ouce  before." 

Tom  cou^rhed  again. 

"I  have." 

Rachael  cast  her  eyes  proudly  towards  Mr. 
Boutiderby,  and  said,  "  Will  you  make  ii 
known  where,  and  who  was  there?" 

''I  went  to  the  house  where  Stephen  Black- 
pool lodged,  on  the  niglit  ot'his  discharge  from 
his  work,  and  I  saw  you  there.  He  was  there 
too ;  and  an  old  wuinaii  who  did  not  speak, 
and  whom  I  ould  scarcely  see,  stood  in  a 
dark  corner.     My  brother  went  with  me." 

"  Why  couldn't  you  say  so,  young  Tom  ?" 
demanded  Bouuderby. 

"  I  promised  my  sister  I  wouldn't ;"  which 
Louisa  hastily  confirmed.  *'  And,  besides," 
said  the  whelp  bitterly,  "she  tells  her  own 
story  so  prei-ious  well — and  so  full — that  what 
business  had  I  to  take  it  out  of  her  mouth!" 

"Say.  voung  lady,  if  you  please,"  pursued 
Rachael,  ''why,  in  an  evil  hour,  you  ever  came 
to  Stephen's  that  night." 

"I  felt  compassion  for  him."  said  Louisa,  her 
color  deepening,  "and  I  wished  to  know  what 
hii  was  goi'ig  to  do,  and  wished  to  oti'er  him 
assistance." 

•■  I'haiik  you,  ma'am,''  said  Bounderby. — 
'•  Much  flattered  and  obliged.'' 

"  Did  you  offer  him,"  asked  Rachael,  "a  bank 
note?" 

'"Yes;  but  he  refused  it,  and  would  only 
take  two  pound.s  in  gold." 

Rachael  cast  her  eyes  towards  Mr.  Bounder- 
by again. 

"  Oh  certainly  !  "  said  Bounderby.  "  If  you 
put  the  question  whether  your  ridiculous  and 
i(n probable  account  was  true  or  not,  I  am 
bound  to  say  it  is  confirmed." 

"  Young  lady,"  said  Rachael.  "  Stephen 
Blackpool  is  now  named  as  a  robber  in  public 
print  ail  over  this  town  and  everywhere  else  ! 
There  have  been  a  meeting  tonight  where 
he  have  been  spoken  of  in  the  same  shameful 
way.  Stephen  !  The  honestest  lad,  the  truest 
lad.  the  best  1  "  Her  indignation  failed  her, 
and  she  broke  off,  sobbing. 

'*  I  am  very,  very  sorry,"  said  Louisa. 

"  O  young  lady,  joung  lady,"  returned 
Rachael,  "  I  hope  you  may  be,  but  I  don't 
know  I  I  can't  say  what  you  may  ha'  done  ! 
The  like  of  y  )u  don't  feel  for  us,  don't  care 
for  us,  don't  belong  to  us.  I  am  not  sure  why 
you  may  ha'  come  that  night.  I  can't  tell 
but  what  you  may  ha'  come  wi'  some  aim 
of  your  own,  not  mindin'  to  what  trouble  you 
brought  such  as   the   poor  lad.     I  said    then, 


Bless  you  for  coming,  and  I  said  it  of  my 
heart,  you  seemed  to  take  so  pitifully  to  him, 
but  I  don't  know  now,  I  don't  know!" 

Louisa  could  not  reproach  her  fur  her 
unjust  suspicions;  she  was  so  faithful  to  her 
idea  of  the  man,  and  so  unhtppy. 

"  And  when  I  think,"  said  Rachael  through 
her  sobs,  "  that  the  poor  lad  was  so  grateful, 
thinkin'  you  so  good  to  him — when  I  mind 
'hat  he  i)ut  his  hand  over  his  hard  worken 
t'ace  to  hide  the  tears  that  you  brought  up 
there — 0  I  hope  you  may  be  sorry,  and  ha' 
no  bad  cause  to  be  it,  but  I  don't  know,  I 
don't  know! " 

"  You're  a  pretty  article,"  growled  the 
whelp,  moving  uneasily  in  his  dark  corner, 
"  to  come  here  with  these  precious  imputa- 
tions! You  ought  to  be  bundled  out  for  n  t 
knowing  how  to  behave  yourself,  and  you 
would  be  by  rights." 

She  said  nothing  in  reply,  and  her  low 
weepinsr  was  the  only  sound  that  was  heard, 
until  Mr.  Bounderby  spoke. 

'•  Come !''  said  he,  "you  know  what  you  have 
engaged  to  do.  You  had  better  give  your 
mind  to  that;  not  this." 

"'Deed,  I  am  loath,"  returned  Rachael,  dry- 
ing her  eyes,  "that  any  here  should  see  me 
weep ;  but  I  wont  be  .seen  so  again.  Young 
lady,  when  I  had  read  what's  put  in  print  of 
Stephen — and  what  has  just  as  much  truth  in 
it  as  if  it  had  been  put  in  print  of  you,  and  no 
more — I  went  straight  to  the  Bank  to  say  I 
knew  where  Stephen  was,  and  to  give  a  sure 
and  certain  promi.se  that  he  should  be  here  in 
two  days.  I  couldn't  meet  wi'  Mr.  Bounderby 
then,  and  your  brother  sent  me  away,  and  I 
tried  to  find  you,  but  you  was  not  to  be  found, 
and  I  went  back  to  work.  Soon  as  I  came  out 
of  the  Mill  to-night  I  hasted  to  hear  what  was 
said  of  Stephen — for  I  know  wi'  pride  he  will 
come  back  to  shame  it ! — and  then  I  went  again 
to  see  Mr.  Bounderby,  and  I  found  him,  and  I 
told  him  every  word  I  knew,  and  he  believed 
no  word  I  said,  and  brought  me  here." 

"So  far  that's  true  enough,''  assented  Mr. 
Bounderby,  vith  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
his  hat  on.  "But  I  have  known  you  people 
before  today,  you'll  observe,  and  I  know  you 
never  die  for  want  of  talking.  Now,  I  recom- 
mend you  not  so  much  to  mind  talking  just 
now,  as  doing.  You  have  undertaken  to  do 
something;  all  I  remark  upon  that  at  present 
is,  do  it !" 

"I  have  written  to  Stephen  by  the  post  that 
went  out  this  afternoon,  as  I  have  written  to 
him  once  before  sin'  he  went  away."  said  Ra- 
chael;  "and  he  will  be  here  at  furthest,  in  two 
days." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  something.  You  are 
not  aware,  perhaps,''  retorted  .Mr.  Bounderby, 
"that  YOU  yourself  have  be<»n  looked  after  now 
and  then,  not  being  considered  quite  ff-ee  from 
suspicion  in  this  fmsiness,  on  account  of  mot 
people  being  judged  according  to  the  compa- 
ny they  keep.  The  post-ollice  hasn't  been  lor- 
gotten  either.     What   I'll    tell  you  is,  that  do 


172 


DICKENS'    NEW   STORIES. 


letter  to  Stephen  Blackpool  has  ever  j^ot 
into  it.  Theiefore,  what  ha.s  become  of  yours, 
I  leave  you  to  guess.  Perhaps  you're  mis- 
taken, and  neviT  wrote  any." 

"  tie  hadn't  bi-en  gone  from  here,  young 
lady,"  said  Rachael,  turning  a])pealint.'ly  to 
Louisa,  ''as  mucli  as  a  week,  wueii  he  sent  me 
the  onlv  letter  1  have  had,  saying  that  he  was 
forced  to  seek  work  in  another  name  " 

'*0h,  by  George !''  cried  Bounderl)y,  with 
a  whistle,  ''  he  changes  his  name,  does  he  ? 
That's  rather  unlucky,  too,  for  such  an  imma- 
culate lad.  It's  considered  a  little  suspicious 
in  Courts  of  .1  ustice,  I  believe,  when  an  Inno- 
cent happens  to  h  ve  many  names  " 

"  What,"  said  Rachael,  with  the  tears  in  hor 
eyes  again, — "'  what,  young  latly,  in  the  name 
of  Vtercy,  was  left  the  poor  lad  to  do  1  The 
masters  against  him  on  one  hand,  the  men 
against  him  ou  the  other,  he  only  wanting 
to  work  hard  iu  peace,  and  do  what  he  fell 
right.  Can  a  man  have  no  soul  of  his  own, 
no  mind  of  his  own?  Must  he  go  wrong  all 
through  wi'  this  side,  or  must  he  go  wrong  ail 
through  wi''that,or  else  be  hunted  bke  a  hare?" 

"Indeed,  indeed,  I  pity  him  from  my  heart," 
returned  Louisa;  "and  I  hope  that  he  will 
clear  himself." 

"You  need  have  no  fear  of  it,  young  lady. 
He  is  sure!'' 

"  All  the  surer,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Boun- 
derby,  "for  your  refusing  to  tell  where  he  is  ? 
Eh  lass  ?" 

"  He  shall  not,  through  any  act  of  mine, 
come  back  wi'  the  unmeiited  reproach  of  being 
brougnt  back.  He  shall  come  back  ot  his 
own  accord  to  rlear  himself,  and  put  all  those 
that  have  injured  his  good  character,  and  he 
not  here  for  its  delence,  to  shame.  I  have 
told  him  what  has  been  done  ag  iinst  him,"' 
said  Kachael,  throwingoff  all  distrust  as  a  rock 
throws  off  the  sea,  "and  he  will  be  here,  at 
furthe>t,  in  two  days." 

"  Notwithstanding  which,"  added  Mr.  Bonn- 
derby,  "if  hw  can  lie  laid  hold  of  sooner,  he 
shall  have  an  earlier  opportunity  of  clearing 
himself.  As  to  you,  I  have  nothing  against 
you  ;  what  you  came  and  told  me  turns  out  to 
bt  true,  and  I  have  given  you  the  means  ot 
proving  it  to  betiue,  and  there's  an  end  of  it. 
1  wish  you  Good-night  all!  I  must  be  otf  to 
look  a  little  further  into  this." 

Torn  came  out  of  his  corner  when  Mr. 
Bounderby  moved,  moved  with  him,  k^pt  close 
to  him,  and  went  away  with  him  The  only 
porting  salutation  of  which  he  delivered  himself 
was  a  sulky  "  Good  night, father!"  With  that 
brief  speech,  and  a  scowl  at  his  sister,  he  left 
the  house. 

8iuce  his  sheet  anchor  had  come  homo,  Mr. 
Gradgrind  had  been  sparing  of  speech,  lie 
Still  sat  sdent,  when  Loui-a  mildly  said  : 

"  Kachael,  you  wid  not  di.>tru:3t  me  one  day, 
when  you  know  me  better." 

"  It  goes  against  me,"  Rachael  answered, 
in  a  gentle  manner,  "to  mistrust  any  one  ;  but 
wheu  I  am  so  mistrusled — when  we  all   are — 


I  cannot  keep  such  things  quite  out  of  my 
mind.  I  ask  your  pardon  I'ur  having  done  yoii 
an  injury.  I  don't  think  what  I  said,  now. — 
Yet  1  might  come  to  think  it  again,  wi'  the 
poor  lad  so  belied.'' 

"  Did  you  ted  him  in  your  letter."  intiuired 
Sissy,  "that  suspicion  seemed  to  have  fallen- 
upon  him,  because  he  had  been  seen  about 
lue  bank  at  night?  He  wunld  then  know 
what  he  would  have  to  explain  on  coming 
back,  and  would  be  ready." 

"  Yes  dear,"  she  returned  ;  "  but  I  can't 
guess  what  can  have  ever  taken  him  ther(?. 
He  never  used  to  go  there.  It  was  never  in 
his  way.  His  way  was  the  same  as  mine  and 
not  near  it." 

bissy  had  already  been  at  hfr  side  asking 
her  where  she  lived,  and  whether  she  might 
come  to  morrow  night,  to  inquire  if  there 
were  news. 

"  I  doubt,"  said  Rachael,  "  if  he  can  be  here 
till  next  day." 

"  Then  1  will  come  next  night  too,"  snid 
Sissy." 

When  Rachael,  assenting  to  this,  was  gone, 
Mr.  Gradgrind  lifted  up  his  head,  and  said  to 
his  daughter: 

"  Louisa,  my  dear,  I  have  never,  that  I 
know  of,  seen  this  man.  Do  you  believe  him 
to  be  implicated  ?"' 

"I  think  I  have  believed  it,  father,  though 
with  great  difficulty.     I  do  not  believe  it  now."' 

"That  is  to  say,  you  once  persuaded  your- 
self to  believe  it,  from  knowing  him  to  be  sus- 
pected. His  appearance  and  manner;  are  they 
so  honest  ?" 

"  Very  honest." 

"And  her  confidence  not  to  be  shaken.  I 
ask  myself,  the","  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  musing, 
"does  the  real  culprit  know  of  these  accusa- 
tions?    Where  is  he  ?     Who  is  he?" 

His  hair  had  latterly  begun  to  change  its 
color.  As  he  leaned  upon  his  hand  aj^ain, 
looking  gray  and  old,  Louisa,  with  a  face  of 
fear  and  pity,  hurriedly  went  over  to  him  and 
sat  close  at  his  side.  Her  e\es  by  artident 
met  Sissy's  at  this  moment.  Sissy  Hushed  and 
started,  and  Eouisa  put  her  finger  on  her  lip. 

Next  night  when  Sissy  returned  home  and 
told  Louisa  that  Stephen  was  not  come,  she 
told  it  in  a  whisper.  Nexi  night  again,  when 
she  came  home  yvith  the  same  account,  and 
added  that  he  had  not  been  heard  of.  she 
spoke  in  the  Sime  low  Irightened  tone.  From 
the  moment  of  that  interchange  of  looks,  they 
never  uttered  his  name,  or  any  rtieience  to 
him  aloud  ;  nor  ever  pursued  the  subject  of 
the  rol)bery  when  Mr.  Gradgrind  spoke  of  it. 

The  two  a|>(M)inted  days  ran  out,  three 
days  and  nights  ran  out,  and  Stephen  Black- 
pool was  not  come,  and  remained  unheard  of. 
On  the  fourth  day,  Hachael,  with  unabated 
contitlence,  but  considering  her  despatch  to 
have  miscarried,  went  up  to  the  Bank,  and 
showed  her  letter  trom  him  with  his  addre&s, 
at  a  working  colony,  one  of  many,  not  upon 
the  main  road,  some   sixty  miles  away.     Mcfj- 


HARD  TIMES. 


173 


eengers  were  sent  to  that  place,  and  the  whole 
town  looked  for  Stephen  to  be  brought  in  next 
day. 

All  this  time  the  whelp  moved  about  with 
Mr.  Bounderby,  like  his  shadow,  assisting  in 
all  the  proceedings.  He  was  greatly  excited, 
horribly  fe  ered,  bit  his  nails  down  to  the 
quick,  spoke  in  a  hard  rattling  voice,  and  with 
lips  that  were  black  and  burnt  up.  At  the 
time  when  the  suspected  man  was  looked  for, 
the  whelp  was  at  the  station,  offering  1 1  wajrer 
that  he  had  made  off  before  the  arrival  of  tho.-e 
who  were  sent  in  quest  of  him,  and  that  he 
would  not  appear. 

The  whelp  was  rioht.  The  messon<jers  re- 
turned alone.  Rachael's  letter  had  jrone, 
Rachael's  letter  had  been  delivered,  Stephen 
Blackpool  had  decamped  in  that  same  hour; 
and  no  soul  knew  more  of  him.  The  only 
doubt  in  Coketown  was,  whether  Rachael  had 
written  in  good  faith,  believing  that  he  really 
would  come  back  ;  or  warning  him  to  fly.  On 
this  point  opinion  was  divided. 

Six  days,  seven,  far  on  into  another  weet. 
The  wretched  whelp  plucked  up  a  ghastly  cou- 
rage, and  began  to  grow  defiant.  "  Was  the 
suspected  fellow  the  thief?  A  pretty  ques-  tion ! 
If  not,  where  was  the  man,  and  why  did  he  not 
come  back?"' 

Where  was  the  man,  and  why  did  he  not 
come  back  ?  In  the  dead  of  night  the  echoes 
of  his  own  words,  which  had  rolled  Heaven 
knows  how  far  away  in  the  daytime,  came 
back  instead,  and  abided  by  him  until  morn- 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Day  and  night  again,  day  and  night  again. 
No  Stephen  Blackpool.  Where  was  the  man, 
and  why  did  he  not  come  back  ? 

Every  night  Sissy  went  to  Rachael's  lodg- 
ing, and  sat  with  her  in  her  small  neat  room. 
All  day,  Rachael  toiled  as  such  people  must 
toil,  whatever  their  anxieties.  The  smoke-ser- 
pents were  indifferent  who  was  lost  or  found, 
who  was  bad  or  good  ;  the  melancholy  mad 
elephants,  like  the  Hard  Fact  men,  abated 
nothing  of  their  set  routine,  whatever  hap- 
pened. Day  and  night  again,  day  and  night 
again,  the  monotony  was  unshaken.  E^en 
Stephen  Blackpool's  disappearance  was  falling 
into  the  general  way,  and  becoming  as  monoto- 
nous a  wonder  as  any  piece  of  machinery  in 
Coketown. 

"I  misdoubt,"  said  Rachael,  "if  there  is  as 
many  as  twenty  left  in  all  this  place  who  have 
any  trust  in  the  poor  dear  lad  now.'' 

She  said  it  to  Sissy  as  they  sat  in  her  lodg- 
ing, lighted  only  by  the  lamp  at  the  street  cor- 
ner. Sissy  had  come  there  when  it  was  al- 
ready dark,  to  wait  for  her  return  from  work; 
and  they  \\a.d  since  sat  at  the  window  wheie 
Rachael  had  found  her,  wanting  no  brighter 
light  to  shine  on  their  sorrowful  talk. 

"If  it  hadn't  b  en  mercifully  brought  about 
that  I  was  to  have  you   to  speak  to,"'  pursued 


Rachael,  "times  are  when  I  think  my  mind 
would  nut  have  kept  right.  But  I  get  hope 
and  strength  through  you,  and  you  believe 
that  though  appearances  muy  rise  a^'alnsl  hiia, 
he  will  be  proved  clear,  living  or  dead.'' 

"I  do  believe  so,"  returned  Sissy,  '•  with  my 
whole  heart.  I  feel  so  certain,  Rachael,  that 
the  confid.-nce  you  hold  in  yours  a^'ainst  all 
discouragement,  is  not  like  to  be  wron.',  that  I 
have  no  more  doubt  of  him  than  if  I  had 
known  him  through  as  many  years  of  trial  ai 
you  have.'' 

"Au'l  I,  my  dear,"  said  Rachael,  with  a 
tremble  in  her  voice,  "have  kno»vn  him 
through  them  all,  to  be,  accordiuiX  to  his 
quiet  ways,  so  faithful  to  everything  honest 
and  good,  that  if  he  was  never  to  be  heard  of 
more,  and  I  was  to  live  to  be  a  hundred  ^ears 
old  I  would  say  with  ray  last  breath,  Uod 
knows  my  heart,  I  have  never  once  left  trustr 
ing  Stephen  Blackpool!" 

"  We  all  believe,  up  at  the  Lodge,  Rachael, 
that  he  will  be  freed  from  suspicion,  sooner  or 
later." 

"  The  better  I  know  it  to  be  so  believed 
there,  my  dear,"'  said  Rachael,  "  and  the  kinder 
I  feel  it  that  you  come  away  from  there  pur- 
posely to  comfort  me,  and  keep  me  company, 
and  be  seen  wi'  me  when  I  am  not  yet  free 
from  all  suspicion  myself,  the  more  grieved  I 
am  that  I  should  ever  have  spoken  those  mis- 
trusting words  to  the  younjj  lady.    And  yet — " 

"  You  don't  mistrust  her  now,  Rachael'?" 

"  Now  that  you  have  brought  us  more  to- 
gether, no;  not  her.  But  1  can't  at  all  times 
keep  out  of  my  mind — " 

Her  voice  so  sunk  into  a  low  and  slow  com- 
muning with  herself,  that  Sissy,  sitting  by  her 
side,  was  obli>;ed  to  listen  with  attention. 

"1  can't  at  all  times  keep  out  of  my  mind, 
mistrustings  of  some  one.  I  can't  tnink  who 
'tis,  1  can't  think  how  or  why  it  Jiay  be  done, 
but  I  mistrust  that  some  one  has  put  Stephen 
out  of  the  way.  1  mistrust  that  by  his  coming 
back  of  his  own  accord,  and  showing  himself 
innocent  before  them  all,  some  one  would  be 
confounded,  who — to  prevent  that  -  has  stopped 
him  and  put  him  out  of  the  way." 

"That  is  a  dreadful  thought,"  said  Sissy, 
turning'  pale. 

"It  is  a  dreadful  thought  to  think  he  raiiy  be 
murdered." 

^  issy  shuddered,  and  turned  paler  yet. 

"When  it  makes  its  way  into  my  mind, 
dear,''  s-aid  Rachael,  "and  it  will  come  some- 
times, though  I  do  all  I  can  to  keep  it  out  wi' 
counting  on  to  hi^'h  numbers  as  I  work,  anJ 
saying  over  and  over  again  pieces  thai  I  knew 
when  I  were  a  child,  1  fall  iniosuch  a  wild  hot 
hurry,  that,  however  tired  I  am,  I  want  to  walk 
fast,  miles  and  miles.  I  must  get  the  better  of 
this  before  my  bed  time.  I'll  walk  home  wi' 
you  now.'' 

"  He  might  fall  ill  upon  the  journey,"  said 
Sissy,  faintly  offering  a  worn-out  scrap  of  hope; 
"  and  in  such  a  case  there  are  many  places  on 
the  road  where  he  might  stop.'' 


174 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


"But  he  is  in  none  of  thena.  He's  been 
sought  for  in  all,  and  he's  not  there." 

"  True,"  was  Sissy's  reluctant  admission. 

"  He'd  walk  the  journey  in  two  days.  If  he 
was  footsore  and  couldn't  walk,  I  sent  him,  in 
the  letter  he  got,  the  money  to  ride,  lest  he 
should  have  none  of  his  own  to  spare." 

"  Let  U3  hope  that  to-morrow  will  bring 
something  better,  Rachael.  Come  into  the 
air  I" 

Her  gentle  hand  adjusted  Rachael's  shawl 
upon  her  shining  black  hair  in  the  usual  man- 
ner of  her  wearing  it,  and  they  went  out.  The 
night  being  tine,  little  knots  of  Hands  were 
here  and  there  lingering  at  street  corners  ; 
but  it  was  supper  lime  with  the  greater  part 
of  them,  and  there  were  but  fe  *  people  in  the 
streets. 

"  You  are  not  so  hurried  now,  Rachael,  and 
your  hand  is  cooler." 

'•  I  get  better,  dear,  if  I  can  only  walk  and 
breathe  a  little  fresh.  Times  when  I  can't,  1 
turn  weak  and  confused.'' 

"But  you  must  not  begin  to  fail,  Rachael, 
for  you  may  be  wanted  at  any  time  to  stand 
for  Stephen.  To-morrow  is  Saturday.  If  no 
■ews  comes  to-morrow,  let  us  walk  in  the 
country  on  Sunday  morning,  and  strengthen 
you  for  another  week.       Will  you  go?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

They  were  by  this  time  in  the  street  where 
Mr.  Bounderby's  house  stood.  The  way  to 
Sissy's  destination  led  them  past  the  door,  and 
they  were  going  straight  towards  it.  f-ome 
train  had  just  arrived  in  Coketown,  which  had 
put  a  number  of  vehicles  in  motion,  and  scat- 
tered a  considerable  bustle  about  the  town. — 
Several  coaches  were  rattling  before  them  and 
behind  them  as  they  approached  Mr  Boun- 
derby's, and  one  of  the  latter  drew  up  with  such 
briskness  as  they  were  in  the  act  of  passing 
tlie  house,  that  they  looked  round  involunta- 
rily. 1  he  bright  gaslight  over  Mr.  Bounder- 
by's steps  shuwed  them  Mrs.  Sparsit  in  the 
coach  in  an  ecstasy  of  excitement,  struggling 
to  open  the  door  ;  Mrs.  Sparsit  seeing  them  at 
the  same  moment,  called  to  them  to  stop. 

"  It's  a  coincidence,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Spar- 
sit, as  she  was  released  by  the  coachman. — 
"It's  a  Providence !  Come  out,  ma'am  f  then 
said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  to  some  one  inside,  "  come 
out,  or  we'll  have  you  dragged  out  1" 

Hereupon,  no  other  than  the  mysterious  old 
woman  descended  ;  whom  Mrs.  Sparsit  incon- 
tinently collared. 

"  Leave  her  alone,  everybody!"  cried  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  with  great  energy.  "  Let  nobody 
touch  her.  She  lelongs  to  me.  Come  in, 
ma'am  1"  then  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  reversing  her 
former  word  of  command.  "  Come  in,  ma'am, 
or  we'll  'lave  you  d  agged  in  !" 

The  spectacle  of  a  Roman-nosed  matron  of 
classical  deportment,  seizing  an  ancient 
woman  by  the  throat,  and  hauling  her  into  a 
dwelling-house,  woulit  have  been,  under  any 
circumstances,  sufficient  temptation  to  all 
true  English   stragglers  so  blest  as    to  witness 


it,  to  force  a  way  into  that  dwelling-house 
and  see  the  matter  out.  But  when  the  phe- 
nomenon was  enhanced  by  the  notoriety  and 
mystery  by  this  time  associated  all  over  the 
town,  with  the  Bank  robbery,  it  would  have 
lured  the  stragglers  in  with  an  irresistible  attrac- 
tion, though  the  roof  had  been  expected  to  fall 
upon  their  heads.  Accordingly,  the  chance 
witnesses  on  the  ground,  consisting  of  the 
busiest  of  the  neighbors,  to  the  number  of 
some  five  and  twenty,  Ciosed  in  after  Sis-^yand 
Rachael,  as  they  closed  it.  after  Mrs.  Sparsit 
and  her  prize ;  and  the  whole  body  made  a 
disorderly  irruption  into  Mr.  Bounderby's 
dining  room,  where  the  people  behind  lost  not 
a  moment's  time  in  mountinij  on  the  chairs  to 
get  the  better  of  the  people  in  front. 

"  Fetch  Mr.  Bounderby  down  !''  cried  Mrs. 
Sparsit.  "Rachael,  young  woman  ;  you  know 
who  this  is  ?" 

"It's  Mrs.  Pegler,"  said  Rachael. 
"  I  should  think  it  is  !"  cried  Mrs.  Sparsit, 
exulting.  "  Fetch  Mr.  Bounderby.  Stand 
away  everybody !"  Here  old  Mrs.  Pegler, 
muffling  herself  up,  and  shrinking  from  obser- 
vation, whispered  a  word  of  entreaty.  "  Don't 
tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit  aloud,  "  I  have 
told  you  twenty  limes  coming  along,  that  I 
will  not  leave  you  till  I  have  handed  you  over 
to  him  myself." 

Mr.  Bounderby  now  appeared,  accompanied 
by  Mr.  Gradgrind  and  the  whelp,  with  whom 
he  had  been  holding  conference  up  stairs. — 
Mr.  Bounderby  looked  more  astonished  than 
hospitable  at  sight  of  this  uninvited  party  in 
his  dining-room. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  now !"  said  he. — 
"  Mrs.  Sparsit,  ma'am  ?" 

"Sir,"  explained  that  worthy  woman,  "I 
trust  it  is  my  good  fortune  to  produce  a  per- 
son you  have  much  desired  to  find.  Stimu- 
lated by  my  wish  to  relieve  your  mind,  sir,  and 
connecting  together  such  imperfect  clues  to 
the  part  of  the  country  in  which  that  person 
might  be  supposed  to  reside,  as  have  been  at'- 
forded  by  the  young  woman  Rachael,  fortu- 
nately now  present  to  identify,  I  have  had 
the  happiness  to  succeed,  and  to  bring  that 
person  with  me — I  need  not  say  most  un- 
willingly on  her  part.  It  has  not  been,  sir, 
without  some  trouble  that  I  have  effected 
this ;  but  trouble  in  your  service  is  to  me  a 
pleasure,  and  hunger,  thirst,  and  cold,  a  real 
gratification." 

Here  Mrs.  Sparsit  ceased,  for  Mr.  Bounder- 
bv's  visage  exhibited  an  extraordinary  com- 
bination of  all  possible  colors  and  expressions 
of  discomfiture,  as  old  Mrs.  Pegler  was  dis- 
closed to  his  view. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  by  this  I"  was  his 
highly  unexpected  demand,  in  great  wrath. 
"  I  ask  you,  what  do  you  mean  by  this,  Mrs. 
Sparsit,  ma'am  ?'' 

"  Sir,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sparsit,  faintlv. 
"  Why  don't  you  mind  your  own  business, 
ma'am  ?''  roared  Bounderln.     "How  dare  you 


HARD  TIMES. 


175 


go  and  poke  your  ofBcious  nose  into  my  family 
affairs  ?'' 

This  allusion  to  her  favorite  feature  over- 
powered Mrs.  Sparsit.  She  sat  down  stiffly  in 
a  chair,  as  if  she  were  frozen,  and  with  a 
fixed  stare  at  Mr.  Bounderby,  slowly  grated 
her  mittens  against  one  another,  as  if  they 
were  frozen  too. 

"  My  dear  Josiah,"  sai  d  Mrs.  Pegler,  tremb- 
ling, "my  darling  boyl  I  am  not  to  blame. 
It's  not  my  fault,  Josiah.  I  told  this  lady 
over  and  over  again,  that  I  knew  she  was 
doing  what  would  not  be  agreeable  to  you,  but 
she  would  do  it." 

"  What  did  you  let  her  bring  you  for  ? 
Couldn't  you  knock  her  cap  off  or  her  tooth 
out,  or  scratch  her,  or  do  something  or  other 
to  her?"  asked  Bounderby. 

'*  My  own  boy  1  She  threatened  me  that  if 
I  resisted  her  I  should  be  brought  by  consta 
bles,  and  it  was  better  to  come  quietly  than 
make  that  stir  in  such  a — "  Mrs.  Pegler 
glanced  timidly  but  proudly  round  the  walls — 
"such  a  fine  house  as  this.  Indeed,  indeed,  it 
is  not  my  fault ;  my  dear,  noble,  stately  boy. 
I  have  always  lived  quiet  and  secret,  Josiah, 
my  dear.  1  have  never  broken  the  condition 
once.  I  have  never  said  I  was  your  mother. 
I  have  admired  you  at  a  distance ;  and  if  I 
have  come  to  town  sometimes,  with  long  times 
between,  to  take  a  proud  peep  at  you,  I  have 
done  it  unbeknown,  my  love,  and  gone  away 
again." 

Mr.  Bounderby,  with  his  hands  in  his  pock- 
ets, walked  in  impatient  mortification  up  and 
down  at  the  side  ot  the  long  dining-table, 
while  the  spectators  greedily  took  in  every 
syllable  of  Mrs.  Pegler's  appeal,  and  at  each 
succeeding  syllable  became  more  and  more 
round-eyed.  Mr.  Bounderby  still  walking  up 
and  down  when  Mrs  Pegler  had  do  e,  Mr. 
Gradgrind  addressed  that  maligned  old  lady: 

"I  am  surprised,  madam,"  he  observed  with 
severity,  "that  in  your  old  age  you  have  the 
face  to  claim  Mr.  Bounde  by  for  your  sou  after 
vour  unnatural  and  inhuman  treatment  of 
him." 

'■Jfe  unnatural  I"  cried  poor  old  Mrs.  Pegler. 
'■'Me  inhuman!     To  my  dear  boy?" 

"Dear!"  repeated  Mr.  Gradgrind.  "Yes: 
dear  in  his  selfmade  prosperity,  madam,  I 
dare  say.  Not  very  dear,  however,  when  you 
deserted  him  in  his  infancy,  and  left  him  to 
the  brutality  of  a  drunken  grandmother." 

"  /  deserted  my  Josiah !"  cried  Mrs.  Pegler, 
clasping  her  hands.  "Now,  Lord  forgive  you, 
sir,  for  your  wicked  imaginations,  and  for  your 
scandal  against  the  memory  of  my  poor  inoi  her, 
who  died  in  my  arms  alore  Josiah  w  is  born. 
May  you  repent  of  it,  sir,  and  live  to  know 
belter!" 

She  was  so  very  earnest  and  injured  that  Mr. 
Gradgrind,  shocked  by  the  possibility  wliich 
dawned  upon  him,  said  in  a  gentler  tenc, 

"  Do  you  deny,  then,  madam,  that  you  left 
your  son  to — to  be  brought  up  in  the  gutter?" 

"Josiah    in    the    gutter!"  exclaimed    Mrs. 


Pegler.  "  No  such  a  thing,  air.  Never  I  For 
shame  on  you!  My  dear  boy  knows,  and 
will  give  you  to  know,  that  though  he  come 
of  humble  parents,  he  come  of  parents  that 
loved  him  as  dear  as  the  best  could,  and  never 
thought  it  hardship  on  themselves  to  pinch  a 
bit  that  he  might  write  and  cypher  beautiful 
and  I've  his  books  at  home  to  show  it !  Aye 
have  I!"  said  Mrs.  Pegler,  with  indignant 
pride.  "And  my  dear  boy  knows,  and  will 
give  you  to  know,  sir.  that  after  his  beloved 
father  died  when  he  was  eight  year  old,  his 
mother,  too,  could  pinch  a  bit,  as  it  was  her 
duty  and  her  pleasure  and  her  pride  to  do  it, 
to  help  him  out  in  life,  and  put  him  "pren- 
tice. And  a  steady  lad  he  was,  and  a  kind 
master  he  had  to  lend  him  a  hand,  and 
well  he  worked  his  own  way  forward  to  be 
rich  and  thriving.  And  /'U  give  you  to 
know,  sir — for  this  my  dear  boy  won't — that 
though  his  mother  kept  but  a  litile  village 
shop,  he  never  forgot  her,  but  pensioned  me 
on  thirty  pound  a  year — more  than  I  want, 
for  I  put  by  out  of  it — only  making  the 
condition  that  I  was  to  keep  down  in  my 
own  part,  and  make  no  boasts  about  him, 
and  not  trouble  him.  And  I  never  have, 
except  with  looking  at  him  once  a  vear, 
when  he  has  never  knowed  it.  And"  it's 
right,"  said  poor  old  Mrs.  Pegler,  in  affec- 
tionate championship,  "  that  I  should  keep 
down  in  my  own  part,  and  I  have  no  doubts 
that  if  I  was  here  I  should  do  a  many  unbe- 
fitting things,  and  I  am  well  contented,  and  I 
can  keep  my  pride  in  my  Josiah  to  mvself, 
and  I  can  love  for  love's  own  sake.  And  I 
am  ashamed  of  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pegler, 
lastly,  "  for  your  slanders  and  suspicions. 
And  I  never  stood  here  afore,  or  wanted  to 
stand  here  when  my  dear  son  said  no.  And  I 
shouldn't  be  here  now,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
being  brought  here.  And  for  shame  upon  von, 
oh!  for  shame,  to  accuse  me  of  being  a  bad 
mother  to  my  son,  with  my  son  standing  here 
to  tell  you  so  different!" 

The  bystanders,  on  and  off  the  dining- 
room  chairs,  raised  a  murmur  of  sympathy 
with  Mrs.  Pegler,  and  Mr.  Gradgrind  felt 
himself  innocently  placed  in  a  very  distress- 
ing predicament;  when  Mr.  Bounderby,  who 
had  never  ceased  walking  up  and  down,  and 
had  every  moment  swelled  larger  and  larger 
and  grown  redder  and  redder,  stopped  short. 

"I  don't  exactly  know,"  said  Mr.  Boun- 
derby, "how  I  come  to  be  favored  with  the 
attendance  of  the  present  company,  but  I 
don't  irjquire.  When  they're  qi.ite  satisfied, 
perhaps  they'll  be  so  good  as  to  disperse ; 
whether  they're  satisfied  or  not,  perhaps 
they'll  be  so  good  as  disperse.  I'm  not  bound 
to  deliver  a  lecture  on  my  family  affairs,  I 
have  not  undertaken  to  do  it,  and  I'm  not  a 
going  to  do  it.  Therefore  those  wh(j  expect 
any  explanation  whatever  upon  that  branch 
t)f  the  subject  will  be  disappointed — ])articu- 
larly  Tom  Gradgrind,  and  he  can't  know  it 
too  soon.     In  relerence  to  the  Bank  robbery, 


176 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


there  has  been  a  mistake  made,  concerning 
my  mother.  If  there  hadn't  been  over- 
otficiousness  it  wouldn't  have  been  made,  and 
I  hate  over-olKciousness  at  all  times,  whether 
or  no.     Good  evening  1'' 

Although  Mr,  Bounderby  carried  it  off  in 
thtse  terms,  holding  the  door  upen  for  the 
company  to  depart,  there  was  a  blustering 
sheepishness  upon  him,  at  once  extremely 
crest-fallen  and  superlatively  absurd.  De- 
tected as  the  bully  of  humility  who  had  built 
his  windy  reputation  upon  lies,  and  in  his  boast- 
fulness  had  put  the  honest  truth  as  far  away 
from  him  as  if  he  had  advanced  the  mean  claim 
(there  is  no  meaner)  to  tack  himself  on  to  a 
pedigree,  he  cut  a  most  ridiculous  figure. 
With  the  people  filing  off  at  the  door  he  held, 
■who  he  knew  would  carry  what  had  passed  to 
the  whole  town,  to  be  given  to  the  four  winds, 
he  could  not  have  looked  a  bully  more  shorn 
and  forlurn,  if  he  had  had  his  ears  cropped. 
Even  that  unlucky  female  Mrs.  Sparsit,  fallen 
from  her  pinnacle  of  exultation  into  the  Slough 
of  Despond,  was  not  in  so  bad  a  plight  as  that 
remarkable  man  and  self-made  humbug,  Jusiah 
Bounderby,  of  Coketown. 

Rachael  aud  Sissy,  leaving  Mrs.  Pegler  to 
occupy  a  bed  at  her  son's  for  that  night,  walk- 
ed together  to  the  gate  of  Stone  Ludge,  and 
there  parted.  Mr.  Gradgrind  joined  them  be- 
fore they  had  gone  very  far,  and  spoke  with 
much  interest  of  Stephen  Blackpool,  for  whom 
he  thought  this  signal  failure  of  the  suspicions 
against  Mrs.  Pegler  was  likely  to  work  well. 

As  to  the  whelp  ;  throughout  this  scene,  as 
on  all  other  late  occasions,  he  had  stuck  close 
to  Bounderby.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  as  long 
as  Bounderby  could  make  no  discovery  with- 
out his  knowledge,  he  was  so  far  safe.  He  never 
visited  his  sister,  and  had  only  seen  her  once 
since  she  went  home,  that  is  to  say  on  the  night 
when  he  still  stuck  close  to  Bounderby  as  al- 
ready related. 

There  was  one  dim  unformed  fear  lingering 
about  his  sister's  mind,  to  which  she  never 
gave  utterance,  which  surr  junded  the  graceless 
and  ungrateful  boy  -with  a  dreadful  mystery — 
The  same  dark  possibility  had  presented  itself 
in  the  same  shapeless  guise,  this  very  day,  to 
Sissy  when  Rachael  spoke  of  some  one  who 
would  be  confounded  by  Stephen's  return, 
having  put  him  out  of  the  way.  Louisa  had 
never  spoken  of  harboring  any  suspicion  of 
her  brother  iu  connexion  with  the  robbery, 
she  and  Sissy  had  held  no  confidence  on  the 
subject  save  in  that  one  interchange  of  looks 
when  th*^  unconscious  father  rested  his  gray 
head  on  his  hand;  but  it  was  understood  be- 
tween them,  and  they  both  knew  it.  This 
other  fear  was  so  awful  that  it  hovered  about 
each  of  them  like  a  ghostly  shadow,  neither 
daring  to  think  of  its  being  near  herself,  far 
less,  of  its  being  near  tl;e  other. 

And  still  the  forced  spirit  which  the  whelp 
had  plucked  up  tlirove  with  him.  If  Stephen 
Blackpool  was  not  the  thief,  let  him  show  him- 
Beli.     Why  didn't  he  ? 


Another  night.  Another  day  and  night. 
No  Stephen  Blackpool.  Where  was  the  man, 
aud  why  did  he  not  come  back  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

The  Sunday  was  a  bright  Sunday  in  autumn, 
clear  and  cool,  when  early  iu  the  morning 
Sissy  and  Rachael  met,  to  walk  in  the  country. 

As  Coketowu  cast  ashes  not  only  on  its  own 
head  but  on  the  neighborhood's  too — after  the 
mariner  of  those  pious  persons  who  do  penance 
tor  their  own  sins  by  putting  other  people  into 
sackcloth — it  was  customary  for  those  who  now 
and  then  thirsted  for  a  draught  of  pure  air, 
which  is  not  absolutely  the  most  wicked  among 
the  vanities  of  life,  to  get  a  few  miles  away  by 
the  railroad,  and  then  begin  their  walk,  or  their 
lounge  in  the  fields.  Sissy  and  Rachael 
helped  themselves  out  of  the  smoke  by  the 
usual  means,  and  were  put  down  at  a  station 
about  midway  between  the  town  and  Mr. 
Bounderby's  retreat. 

Though  the  green  landscape  was  blotted 
here  and  there  with  heaps  of  coal,  it  was  green, 
elsewhere  and  there  were  trees  to  see,  and  there 
were  larks  singing  (though  it  was  Sunday),  and 
there  were  pleasant  scents  in  the  air,  and  all 
was  overarched  by  a  bright  blue  s'Ky.  In 
t'le  distance  one  way,  Coketown  showed  as  a 
black  mist ;  in  another  distance,  hills  began 
to  rise;  in  a  third,  there  was  a  faint  change 
in  the  light  of  the  horizon,  where  it  shone  upon 
the  far-off  sea.  Under  their  feet,  the  grass 
was  fresh  ;  beautiful  shadows  of  branches  flick- 
ered upon  it  and  speckled  it;  hedgerows  were 
luxuriant ;  everything  was  at  peace.  Engines 
at  pits'  mouths,  and  lean  old  horses  that  had 
worn  the  circle  of  their  daily  labor  into  the 
ground  were  alike  quiet;  wheels  bad  ceased 
for  a  short  space  to  turn  ;  and  the  great  wheel 
of  earth  seemed  to  revolve  without  the  shocks 
and  noises  of  another  time. 

They  walked  on  across  the  fields  and  down 
the  shady  lanes,  sometimes  getting  over  a 
fragment  of  a  fence  so  rotten  that  it  dropped 
at  a  touch  of  the  foot,  sometimes  passing  near 
a  wi-eck  of  bricks  and  beams  overgrown  with 
grass,  marking  the  site  of  some  deserted 
works.  They  followed  paths  and  tracks  how- 
ever slight,  mounds  where  the  grass  was  rank 
and  high,  and  where  brambles,  dock-weeds, 
and  such  like  vegetation  were  confusedly 
heaped  together,  they  alwajs  avoided  ;  for  dis- 
mal stories  were  told  in  that  country  of  the 
old  pits  hidden  beneath  such  indications. 

The  sun  was  high  when  they  set  down  to 
rest.  'J  hey  had  seen  no  one,  near  or  distant, 
for  a  long  time,  and  the  solitude  remained 
unbroken.  "  It  is  so  still  here,  Rachael,  and 
the  way  is  so  untrodden,  that  I  think  we  must 
be  the  first  who  have  been  here  all  the  sum- 
mer." 

As  Sissy  said  it,  her  eyes  were  attracted  by 
another  of  those  rotten  fragments  of  fenee 
upon  the  ground.  She  got  up  to  look  at  it. 
"  And  yet  I  don't  know.  This  has  not  been 
broken  very  long.     The  wood  is  quite  fresh 


HARD  TIMES. 


17' 


where  it  gave  way.  Here  are  footsteps  too. 
0  Rachael  1" 

She  raa  back  and  caught  her  round  the 
neck.     Ranhael  had  ah-eady  started  up. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"  I  dou't  know.  There  is  a  hat  lying  in  the 
grass." 

They  went  forward  together.  Rachael  took 
it  up,  shaking  from  head  to  foot.  She  liroke 
into  a  passion  of  tears  and  lamentations ; 
Stephen  Blackpool  was  written  in  his  own 
hand  on  th.;  inside 

"  0  the  poor  lad,  the  ])oor  lad  I  He  has 
been  made  away  with.  He  is  lying  murdered 
here  !  " 

"  Is  there — has  the  hat  any  blood  upon  it?" 
Sissy  faltered. 

They  were  afraid  to  look,  but  they  did 
examine  it,  and  found  no  mark  of  violence, 
inside  or  out.  It  had  been  lying  there  some 
days,  for  rain  and  dew  had  stained  it,  and  it 
left  the  mark  of  its  shape  on  the  grass  where 
it  had  fallen.  They  looked  fearfully  about 
them,  without  moving,  but  coidd  see  nothing 
more.  "  Kachael,"  fcissy  whispered,  "  1  will 
go  on  a  little  by  myself." 

She  had  uticlasped  her  hand,  and  was  in  the 
act  ot  stepping  forward,  when  Hachael  caught 
her  in  Ijulli  arms  witli  a  scream  that  resounded 
over  the  wide  landscape.  Before  them,  at 
their  very  feet,  was  the  brink  of  a  black,  rag- 
ged chasm,  hidden  by  the  thick  grass.  They 
sprang  back,  and  fell  u|)i)n  their  knees,  each 
hiding  her  fuce  upon  the  other's  neck. 

"0  my  good  God!  He's  down  there  1  Down 
there!"  At  first  this  and  her  terrific  screams 
were  all  that  could  be  got  from  Hachael  by 
any  tears,  by  any  prayers,  by  any  representa- 
tions, by  any  means.  It  was  impossible  to 
hush  her,  and  it  was  deadly  necessary  to  hold 
htr,  or  she  would  have  distractedly  Hung  her- 
self down  the  shaft. 

'  Rachael,  dear  Rachael,  good  Rachafd,  for 
the  love  of  Heaven,  not  these  dreadful  cries! 
Tliiuk  of  Stephen,  thiuk  of  Stephen,  think  of 
Stephen  !" 

By  an  earnest  repetition  of  this  entreaty, 
poured  out  in  all  the  agony  of  such  a  time. 
Sissy  at  last  brought  her  to  be  silent,  and  to 
look  at  her  with  a  tearless  face  of  stone. 

'■Racliael,  Stephen  may  be  living.  You 
wouldn't  leave  Imn  lying  maimed  at  the  bot- 
tom of  this  dreadful  place  a  moment  if  you 
could  bring  help  to  him!"' 

"No,  no,  no !'' 

"Don't  stir  from  here,  for  his  sake !  Let 
me  go  and  listen." 

She  shuddered  to  approach  the  pit,  but  she 
crept  toivards  it  on  her  hands  and  knees,  aiid 
called  to  hiin  as  loud  as  she  cuuld  call.  She 
listened,  but  uo  sound  replied.  She  called 
aj'ain  and  listened;  still  no  answering  sound. 
She  did  this  twen  y,  thirty  times,  ^he  took  a 
clod  of  earrh  from  the  broken  ground  where 
he  had  ^tuInl)led,  and  threw  it  in.  She  could 
not  hear  it  fa  1. 

Ttie  wide  prospect,  so  beautiful  in  its  still- 
12 


ness  but  a  few  minutes  ago.  almost  ciirrirMi 
despair  to  her  brave  heari,  hs  slje  io-,e  hi.A 
looked  all  round  her  seeing  no  help.  "Hachael, 
we  must  lose  not  a  moment.  We  must  no  in 
diff-rent  directions,  seeking  aid.  You  shall 
go  by  the  way  we  have  ciune,  and  1  will  go 
fjrward  by  the  path.  Tell  any  one  you  see, 
and  every  one,  what  has  hafipened.  'J  hink  ot 
Stephen,  think  of  Stephen  1'' 

bhe  knew  by  Rachael's  face  that  slie  might 
trust  her  now.  After  standing  fur  a  moineiit 
to  see  her  running,  wringing  her  hand.v  as  she 
went,  she  turned  and  went  upon  htr  own 
search  ;  she  stopped  at  the  hedge  to  lie  her 
shawl  there  as  a  guide  to  the  pbtce,  then 
threw  her  bonnet  aside,  and  ran  as  ahe  had 
never  run  before. 

Hun,  Sissy,  run,  in  Heaven's  name!  Don't 
stop  lor  breath.  Run,  run!  Quickening 
herself  by  carrying  such  entreaties  in  her 
thoughts,  she  ran  from  field  to  field  and  lane 
to  lane,  and  place  to  place,  as  she  had  never 
run  before,  until  she  came  to  a  shed  by  an 
engine-house,  where  two  men  lay  in  the  shade 
asleep  on  .straw. 

First  to  wake  them,  and  next  to  tell  them 
all  so  wild  and  breathless  as  she  was,  what 
had  broiight  her  there,  were  difUculties:  but 
they  no  sot  ner  understood  hertiian  theirspirits 
were  on  tire  like  hers.  One  of  tlie  men  was  in 
a  drunken  slumber,  but  on  his  comrade's 
shouting  to  him  that  a  man  had  fallen  down 
the  ( 'U)  RiZhh  Shakt,  he  started  out  to  a  pool 
of  dirty  water,  put  his  head  in  it,  and  came 
Ijack  sober. 

With  these  two  men  she  ran  to  another,  half- 
a-mile  further,  and  with  that  one  to  another, 
while  they  ran  elsewhere.  Then  a  horse  was 
found,  and  she  got  another  man  to  ride  for  life 
or  death  tt)  the  railroad,  and  send  a  nressai'e 
to  Louisa,  which  she  wrote  and  gave  him.  By 
this  lime  a  whole  village  was  upj  and  wiu'i- 
lasj-e.-,  ropes,  pole^,  buckets,  iandles,lanthorn3, 
all  tilings  necessary,  were  ta-t  collecting  and 
being  brou<ilit  inio  one  place  to  be  carried 
to  the  '  Id  Hell  Shaft. 

It  seemed  now  hours  and  hours  since  she 
had  left  the  lost  man  l}ing  in  the  grave  where 
he  had  been  buried  alive.  She  could  not  bear 
to  remain  away  from  it  any  longer — it  was 
like  deserting  him — and  she  hurried  swiftly 
back,  accoin|iaiiied  by  haU'-a-dozen  laborers, 
including  the  drunken  man  whom  the  news 
had  sobered,  and  who  was  the  best  man  of  all. 
When  they  came  to  the  Old  Hell  Shaft  they 
found  it  as  lonely  as  she  had  left  it.  The 
men  called  and  listened  as  she  had  done,  and 
examined  the  edge  of  the  chasm,  and  settled 
iiow  it  had  happened,  and  then  s.it  down  to 
wait  until  tho  implements  ihey  wanted  should 
come  up. 

Every  sound  of  insects  in  the  air,  every 
stirring  of  the  leaves,  every  whisper  among 
these  men,  made  Sissy  tremble,  for  she  thought 
it  was  a  cry  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit.  But  the 
wind  blew  idly  over  it,  and  no  sinind  arose  to 
the  surface,  and  they  sat  upon  the  grass,  wail- 


i:^ 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


ing  and  waiting.  After  they  had  waited  some 
time,  strangling  people  wIk)  had  heard  of  the 
ftceideiil  ijegaii  to  come  up  ;  then  the  real  help 
of  implements  began  to  arrive.  In  the  midst 
of  this  Hachael  returned  ;  and  with  lier  party 
there  was  a  sur;;eoii,  who  brought  some  wine 
and  medicines.  But  the  expectation  anu^ng 
the  working  pitmen  that  the  man  would  be 
found  alive,  was  very  slii'ht  indeed. 

There  being  now  people  enough  present  tr> 
impede  the  worli;  the  sobered  man  put  himself 
at  the  head  of  the  rest,  or  was  put  there  by  the 
general  consent,  and  made  a  large  ring  round 
the  Old  Hell  Shaft,  and  appointed  men  to 
keep  it.  Besides  such  volunteers  as  were  ac- 
cepted to  worlv,  only  Sissy  and  Rachael  were  at 
first  permitted  w.thin  this  ring  ;  but  later  in 
the  day,  when  the  message  brought  an  express 
from  Ooketown,  Mr.  Giadgrind  and  Louisa, 
aud  Mr.  Bounderby,  and  the  whelp,  were  also 
there. 

The  sun  was  four  hours  lower  than  when 
Sissy  and  Rachael  had  first  sat  down  upon  the 
grass,  before  a  means  of  enabling  two  men  to 
descend  securely  was  rigged  with  poles  and 
rope^.  DitBculties  had  arisen  in  the  con- 
struction of  this  machine,  simple  as  it  was; 
requisites  had  been  found  wanting,  aud  mes- 
sages had  to  go  and  return.  It  was  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  a  bright  autumnal 
S  uiday,  before  a  caudle  was  sent  down  to  try 
the  air,  while  three  or  four  rough  faces  stood 
crowded  close  together,  all  attentively  watching 
ic:  tne  men  at  the  windlass  lowering  as  they 
were  told.  The  candle  was  brought  up  again, 
feebly  burning,  and  then  some  water  was  cast 
in  Then  the  bucket  was  hooked  on,  and  the 
sobered  man  aud  another  got  in  with  lights, 
giving  the  word  "Lower  away!'' 

As  the  rope  went  out,  tight  and  strained, 
and  the  windlass  creaked,  there  was  nut  a 
breath  among  the  one  or  two  hundred  men 
and  women  looking  on,  that  came  as  it  was  wont 
t  J  come.  The  signal  was  given  and  the  wiiidl  ss 
stopped,  with  abundant  rope  to  spare.  Apj)a- 
rently  so  long  an  interval  ensued,  with  the  men 
at  the  windlass  standing  idle,  that  some  women 
shriekdd  that  another  accident  had  hdppened. 
But  the  surgeon  who  held  the  watch,  declared 
five  minutes  not  to  have  elapsed  yet,  and 
sternly  admonished  them  to  kr-ep  silence,  lit' 
had  not  well  done  speaking  when  the  windlass 
was  reversed  and  worked  again.  Practised 
eyes  knew  that  it  did  not  go  as  heavily  as  it 
■would  if  both  workmen  had  been  coming  up, 
and  that  only  one  was  returning. 

The  rope  came  in  tight  and  strained,  and 
ring  after  ring  was  coiled  upon  the  barrel  of 
the  windlass,  and  all  eyes  were  fastened  on 
the  pit.  Ihe  sobered  man  was  brought  up, 
and  leaped  out  briskly  on  the  grass.  There 
was  a  universal  cry  o-f  "  alive  or  dead?''  aud 
then  a  deep,  profound  hush. 

When  he  said  "  alive,''  a  great  shout  arose, 
aud  many  eyes  had  tears  in  them. 

"  But  he's  hurt  very  bad,"  he  added,  as  soon 
as    he    could    m^ke    himself    heard    again. 


"  Where's  doctor?     He's  hurt  so  very  had,  sir, 
that  we  donno  how  to  get  him  up." 

They  all  consulted  toiicther,  and  looked 
anxiously  at  the  surgeon,  as  he  asked  some 
i[nes:ions  aud  shook  his  head  on  receiving  the 
replies.  The  sun  wus  setting  now,  and  the  red 
light  in  the  evening  sky  touched  e^'ery  face 
there,  and  caused  it  to  be  distiiiClly  seen  in  all 
its  wrapt  suspense. 

The  consultation  ended  in  the  men  return- 
ing to  the  windlass,  and  the  pitman  going 
d<jwn  again,  carrying  the  wine  and  some  other 
small  matters  with  him.  Then  the  other  mati 
came  up.  In  the  mean  time,  under  the  sur- 
geon's directions,  some  men  brought  a  hur- 
dle, on  which  others  made  a  thick  bed  of  .-pare 
clothes  covered  with  loose  straw,  whi'e  he  liim- 
self  contrived  some  liaiidages  and  slinirs  I'rom 
shawls  and  haudki'rchiets.  As  these  were 
made,  they  wei-e  hung  upon  the  arm  of  the 
pitman  who  had  last  coiue  up,  with  insTuc- 
lioiis  how  to  use  them  ;  and  as  he  stood,  shown 
by  the  light  he  carried,  leaning  his  p^nverful 
loose  hand  upon  one  of  the  poles,  and  some- 
times glancing  down  the  pit  and  sometimes 
glancing  round  upon  the  people,  he  vvas  nut 
the  least  conspicuous  figure  in  the  scene.  It 
was  dark  now,  and  torches  were  kindled. 

It  appeared  from  the  little  this  man  said 
to  those  about  him,  which  was  quickly  re- 
peated all  over  the  circle,  that  the  lost  inan 
had  fallen  upon  a  mass  of  crumbled  rubbi.-h 
with  which  the  pit  was  half  choked  up.  and 
that  his  fall  had  been  further  broken  by  some 
jagged  earth  at  the  side.  He  lay  upon  his 
'lack  with  one  arm  doubled  under  him.  and 
according  to  his  own  belief  had  hardly  sHned 
since  he  tell,  except  that  he  had  moved  his 
free  hand  to  a  side  pocket,  in  which  he  re 
membered  to  have  some  bread  and  meat  (nf 
which  he  had  swallowed  crumbs),  and  h;id 
likewise  scooped  up  a  little  water  in  it  now  and 
then.  He  had  come  straight  away  fium  his 
work  on  being  written  to;  and  had  walkcil  tlie 
whole  journey  ;  and  was  on  his  way  to  Mf. 
Hounderby's  country-house  after  dark,  uhen  Ire 
fell.  He  was  crossing  that  dangerous  conntrv 
at  such  a  dangerous  time  because  he  was 
wholly  innocent  of  what  was  laid  to  his  charge, 
and  couldn't  rest  from  coming  the  nearest  way 
t)  deliver  himself  up.  The  Old  Hell  Siiaf:. 
the  pitman  said,  with  a  curse  upon  it  was 
worthy  of  its  bad  name  to  the  last;  for  thcngh 
Stephen  could  speak  now,  he  believed  it  would 
soon  be  found  to  have  mangled  the  life  out  of 
him. 

When  all  was  ready,  this  man  still  taking 
his  last  hurried  charges  from  his  comrades 
and  the  surgeon,  after  the  windlass  had  begun 
to  lower  him,  disappeared  into  the  pit.  The 
rope  went  out  as  before,  the  signal  was  made 
as  before,  and  the  windlass  stopped.  No  man 
removed  his  hand  Irom  it  now.  Every  one 
waited  with  his  grasp  set,  and  his  body  bent 
down  to  the  work,  ready  to  reverse  and  wind 
in.  At  length  the  signal  was  given,  and  all 
the  ring  leaned  forward. 


HARD  TIMES. 


179 


For  now  the  rope  came  in  titrlitened  and 
Ptraiiied  to  its  utmuat  as  it  appca'-t-d,  and  the 
men  turned  heavily,  and  the  windlass  eani- 
plaiiied  It  was  sc-ticely  endurable  to  k)ok 
at  the  rope,  and  think  of  its  giving  way.  But 
rin^  aher  rinj^  was  coiled  upon  the  barrel  of 
the  windlass  safely,  and  the  connecting  chains 
appeared,  and  finally  the  buclet  wiih  the  two 
men  holding  on  at  the  sides  —a  sight  to  make 
the  head  swim,  and  oppress  the  heart — and 
tenderly  supporting  between  them,  slung  and 
tied  wiihin,  the  figure  of  a  poor  crushed  human 
creature. 

A  low  murmur  of  pity  went  round  the 
throng,  and  the  women  wept  aloud,  as  this 
form,  almost  without  form,  was  moved  very 
slowly  from  its  iron  deliverance,  and  laid 
upon  the  bed  of  straw.  At  first,  none  but  the 
6u.i;eon  went  close  to  it.  He  did  what  he 
could  in  its  adjustment  on  the  couch,  but  the 
best  that  he  could  do  was  to  cover  it.  That 
gently  done,  he  called  to  him  Rachael  and 
Sissy,  and  at  that  time  the  pale,  worn,  patient 
face  was  seen  looking  up  at  the  sky,  with  the 
broken  right  hand  lying  bare  on  the  outside  of 
the  covering  garments,  as  if  waiting  to  be  taken 
by  another  hand. 

They  gave  him  drink,  moistened  his  face 
with  water,  and  administered  some  drops  of 
cordial  and  wine.  Though  he  lay  quite  mo- 
tionless looking  up  at  the  sky,  he  smiled  and 
said,  "  Rachael." 

^he  stooped  down  on  the  grass  at  his  side, 
and  bent  over  him  until  her  eyes  were  between 
bis  and  the  sky,  for  he  could  P'^  so  much  as 
turn  ihem  to  look  at  her. 

"  Rachael,  my  dear." 

She  took  his  hand.  He  smiled  again  and 
said,  ''Don't  let  it  go." 

'•Thoti'rt  in  great  pain,  my  own  dear  Ste- 
phen ?" 

''1  ha'  been,  but  not  now.  I  ha'  been — 
dreadful,  and  dree,  and  long,  my  dear — but 
'tis  ower  now  Ah  Rachel,  aw  a  muddle!  Fro' 
first  to  last,  a  muddle!  " 

The  spectre  of  his  old  look  seemed  to  pass 
as  he  said  the  word. 

"  I  ha'  fell  into  th'  pit,  my  dear,  as  have 
cost  wi'in  the  knowledge  o'  old  fok  now  livin' 
hundreds  and  hundreds  o'  men's  lives — 
fathers,  sons,  brothers,  dear  to  thousands  an' 
thousands,  and  keepin'  'em  fro'  want  and 
hunger.  L  ha'  fell  into  a  pit  that  ha'  been 
■wi'  th'  fire-damp  crueller  than  battle.  1  ha' 
read  on't  in  the  public  petition,  as  onny  one 
may  read,  fro'  the  men  that  works  in  pits,  in 
which  they  ha'  pray'n  an  pray'n  the  law- 
makers for  Christ's  sake  not  to  let  their 
work  be  murder  to  'em,  but  to  spare  'em  for 
th'  wives  and  children  that  they  loves  as  well 
as  irentlefblk  loves  theirs.  When  it  were  in 
work,  it  killed  wi'out  need  ;  when  'tis  let  alone, 
it  kills  wi'out  need.  See  how  we  die  an'  no 
need,  one  Wi'j  an'  another — in  a  mudale  every 
day!" 

He  faintly  said  it,  without  any  aiigfr  against 
any  one.     Merely  as  the  truth. 


"Thy  little  sister,  Rachael,  thou  hast  not 
forgot  her.  Thou'rt  not  like  to  forget  her  now, 
anil  me  so  nij/h  her.  Thou  knowst,  pour, 
patient,  suff'rin'  dear,  how  thou  didst  work  for 
htr,  sett'n  all  day  lung  in  her  little  chair  at  thy 
window;  an'  she  died,  young  and  misshapen 
awlung  o'  sickly  air  as  had'n  no  need  to  be, 
au'awluMg  o'  workin'  people's  miserable  homes. 
A  muddle  !    Aw  a  muddle!" 

Louisa  approached  him,  but  he  could  not 
see  her,  lying  with  his  face  turned  up  to  the 
night  sky. 

"If  aw  th'  things  that  touches  us,  my  dear, 
was  not  so  muddled,  I  should'n  ha'  had'n  nf-ed 
to  coom  heer.  If  we  was  iiot  in  a  mudille 
among  ourseln,  I  should'n  ha'  been  by  my 
own  fellow  weavers  and  workin'  brothers,  so 
mistook.  If  Mr.  Bounderby  had  ever  knowd 
me  right — rather  if  he'd  ever  know'd  me  at 
aw — he  would'n'  ha'  took'a  offence  wi'  me. — 
He  would'n'  ha'  suspect'n  me.  But  look  up 
yonder,  Rachael !  Look  above." 

Following  his  eyes,  she  saw  that  he  was 
gazing  at  a  star. 

"  It  ha'  shined  upon  me  "  he  said  reverently, 
"  in  my  paiu  and  trouble  down  below.  It  ha' 
shined  into  my  mind.  I  ha'  look'n  an'  thout 
o'  thee,  Rachael,  till  the  muddle  in  my  mind 
have  cleared  awa  above  a  bit,  I  hope.  If  soom 
ha'  been  wantin'  in  unnerstannin'  me  better,  I, 
too,  hu'  been  wantin'  in  unnerstannin'  them 
better.  When  I  got  thy  letter,  I  easily  believed 
that  what  the  yoong  lady  sen  an'  done  to  me, 
an'  what  her  brother  sen  an'  done  to  me  were 
one,  an'  that  there  were  a  wicked  plot  betwixt 
un.  When  I  fell,  I  were  in  anger  wi'  her,  an" 
hurryin'  on  t'  be  as  onjust  t'  her  as  others  was 
t'  me.  But  in  our  judgment  like  as  in  our 
dolus,  we  mun  bear  and  forbear.  In  my 
pain  an'  trouble  lookin  up  yonder, — wi'  it 
sbiuin'  on  me — I  ha'  seen  more  clear  and  ha' 
made  it  my  dying  prayer  that  aw'  th'  world 
may  on'y  come  together  more,  an'  get  a  bet- 
ter umerstannin'  o'  one  another,  than  when  I 
weTc  iu't  my  own  weak  seln." 

Louisa  hearing  what  he  said,  bent  over  him 
on  the  opposite  side  to  Rachael,  so  that  he 
could  see  her. 

"Yon  ha'  heard?"  he  ^aid,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments' silence,  "I  ha'  not  forgot  yo',  leddy." 

•*Yes,  Stephen,  I  have  heard  you.  And  your 
praver  is  mine." 

"1  ou  ha'  a  father.  Will  yo'  tak  a  message 
to  him  ?"' 

'•Ue  is  here,"  said  Louisa,  with  dread. — 
"Shall  I  bring  him  to  you?"' 

"If  yo'  please." 

Louisa  returned  with  her  father.  Standing 
hand  in-hand,  they  both  looked  down  upon  his 
solemn  couutetiance. 

'•Sir,  yo'  will  clear  me  an'  mak'  my  nam3 
gond  wi"  aw  men.     This  I  leave  to  yo'." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  was  troubled  and  asked  how  ? 

"^ir,"  was  the  reply,  ''yor  sou  will  .ell  yo 
how.  Ask  him.  1  mak' no  charges.  I  leave 
none  ahiut  me,  not  a  single  word.  I  ha'  seen 
an'  spok'u  wi'  your  son,  one  night.     I  ask  no 


180 


PICKEN'S  NEW  STORIES. 


more  o'  yo'  than  that  yo  clear  me — an'  I  trust 
to  yo  to  do't." 

The  bearers  beins:  now  rendy  to  carry  him 
away,  and  the  surgeon  being  anxious  for  his 
removal,  those  who  had  torches  or  lanterns, 
prepared  to  go  in  front  of  the  litter.  Before  it 
waa  raised,and  while  they  were  arranging  how 
to  go,  he  9aid  to  Rachael,  looking  upwaid  at 
the  star, — 

*'  Often  as  I  coom  to  myseln,  and  found  it 
ehinin'  on  me  down  there  in  my  trouble,  I 
thowt  it  were  the  star  as  guided  to  Our  Sa- 
viour's home,  I  awmust  think  it  be  the  very 
star !" 

They  lifted  him  up,  and  he  was  overjoyed 
to  find  that  they  were  about  to  take  him  in 
the  direction  whither  the  star  seemed  to  hiai  to 
lead. 

"Rachael,  beloved  lass!  Don't  let  go  my 
hand.    We  may  walk  together  t'night  my  dear!'' 

"I  will  hold  thy  hand,  and  keep  beside  thee, 
Stephen,  all  the  way." 

"Bless  thee  !  Will  soombody  be  pleased  to 
coover  mv  face?" 

They  carried  him  very  gently  along  the 
fields,  and  down  the  lanes,  and  over  the  wide 
landscape ;  Rachael  always  holding  the  hand  in 
hers.  Very  few  whispers  Ijroke  the  mournful 
silence.  It  was  soon  a  funeral  procession. 
The  star  had  shown  him  where  to  find  the  God 
of  the  poor;  and  through  humilitv,  and  sorrow, 
and  forgiveness,  he  had  gone  to  his  Redeem- 
er's rest. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Before  the  ring  formed  round  the  Old  Hell 
Shaft  was  broken,  one  figure  had  disapjieared 
from  within  it.  Mr.  Bounderby  and  his  shadow 
had  not  stood  near  Louisa,  who  held  her  father's 
arm,  but  in  a  retired  place  by  themselves. 
When  Mr.  Gradgrind  was  s\immoned  to  the 
couch,  Sissy,  attentive  to  all  that  hap  jened, 
slipped  behind  that  wicked  shadow — a  sight  in 
the  horror  of  his  face,  if  there  had  been  eves 
there  for  any  sight  but  one — and  whispered  in 
his  ear.  Without  turning  his  head,  for  she 
had  begun  by  telling  him  not  even  to  look 
round,  he  conferred  with  her  a  few  moments, 
and  vanished.  Thus  the  whelp  had  gone  out 
of  the  circle  before  the  people  moved. 

When  the  father  reached  home,  he  sent  a 
message  to  Mr.  Bouuderby's,  desiring  his  son 
to  come  to  him  directly.  The  reply  was,  that 
Mr.  Bounderby  having  missed  him  in  the 
crowd,  and  seen  nothing  of  him  since,  had 
supposed  him  to  be  at  Stone  Lodge. 

"I  believe,  father,"  said  Louisa,  "he  will 
not  come  back  to  town  to-night."  Mr.  Grad- 
grind turned  away  and  said  no  more. 

In  the  morning,  he  went  down  to  the  Bank 
himself  as  soon  as  it  was  opened,  and  seeing 
his  son's  place  empty,  (he  had  not  the  courage 
to  look  in  at  first.)  went  back  along  the  street 
to  meet  Mr.  Bounderby  on  his  way  there.  To 
whom  he  said  tLat,  for  reasons  he  would  soon 
explain,  but  entreated  not  then  to  be  asked 
for,  he  had  found   it   necessary  to  employ  his 


son  at  a  distance  for  a  little  while.  Also,  that  he 
was  char^red  with  the  duty  of  vindicating  Ste- 
phen Blackpool's  memory,  and  declaring  the 
thief.  Mr.  Bounderby,  quite  confounded,  stood 
stock  still  in  the  street  after  his  father-in-law 
had  left  him,  swelling  like  an  immense  soap- 
bubble,  without  its  beauty. 

Mr.  Gradgrind  went  home,locked  himself  in 
his  room,  and  kept  it  all  that  day.  When  i^i.ssy 
and  Louisa  tapped  at  his  door,  he  said,  with- 
out opening  it,  "Not  low,  my  dears;  in  the 
evening."  On  their  return  in  the  evening,  he 
said,  "I  am  not  able  vet — to-morrow."  Hs 
ate  nothing  all  day,  and  had  no  candle  after 
dark,  and  they  heard  him  walking  to  and  fro 
late  at  ni^'ht. 

But  in  the  morning  he  appeared  at  breakfast 
at  the  usual  hour,  and  took  his  usual  place  at 
the  table.  Aged  and  bent  he  looked,  and  quite 
bowed  down;  and  yet  he  looked  a  wiser  man, 
and  a  better  man,  than  in  the  days  when  in 
this  lite  he  wanted  nothing  but  facts.  Before 
he  left  the  room,  he  appointed  a  time  for  them 
to  come  to  him,  and  sj,  with  his  gray  head 
drooping,  went  away, 

"  Dear  father,"  said  Louisa,  when  they  kept 
their  appointment,  "you  have  three  young 
children  left.  They  will  be  different.  I  will 
be  diffei'''nt  yet,  with  Heaven's  help." 

She  gave  her  hand  to  Sissy,  as  if  she  meant 
with  the  help  of  her  loving  heart. 

''Your  wretched  brother,'"'  said  Mr.  Grad- 
grind. "Do  you  think  he  bad  planned  this 
robbery,  when  he  went  with  you  to  the  lodging?"' 

"I  fear  so,  father.  I  know  he  had  wanted 
money  very  much,  and  had  spent  a  great  dt-al.'' 

"The  poor  man  being  about  to  leave  the 
town,  it  came  into  his  evil  brain  to  cast  sus-pi- 
cion  on  him  ?'' 

"  I  think  it  must  have  flashed  upon  him  while 
he  sat  there,  father.  For  1  asked  him  to  go 
there  with  me.  The  visit  did  not  originate 
with  him." 

"  He  had  some  conversation  with  the  poor 
man.     Did  he  take  him  aside?" 

"He  took  him  out  of  the  room.  I  asked  him 
afterwards,  why  he  had  done  so,  and  he  made 
a  plausible  excuse;  but  since  last  night,  father, 
and  when  I  remember  the  circumstances  by 
its  light,  I  am  afraid  I  can  imagine  too  tiuly 
what  passed  between  them." 

"Let  me  know,"  said  her  father,  "ifj-our 
thoughts  present  your  guilty  brother  in  the 
same  dark  view  as  mine  do." 

"  I  am  afraid,  father,"  reiterated  Louisa, 
"that  he  must  have  made  some  representation 
to  Stephen  Blackpool — perhaps  in  my  name, 
perhaps  in  his  own — which  induced  him  to  do 
iu  good  faith  and  honesty,  what  he  had  never 
done  before,  and  to  wait  about  the  Bank  those 
two  or  three  nights  before  he  left  the  town." 

"  Too  plain  I''  returned  the  father.  "  Too 
plain!" 

He  shaded  his  face,  and  remained  silent  for 
some  moments.     Recovering  himself,  he  said  : 

"  And  now,  bow  is  he  to  be  found  ?  How  is 
he  to  be  saved  from  justice  ?     In  the  few  hours 


HARD  TIMES. 


181 


that  I  can  possil)ly  allow  to  elapse  before  I 
publish  the  truth,  how  is  he  to  be  found  by  us 
aud  only  by  us  ?  Ten  thousand  pounds  could 
not  etfect  it." 

"  8issy  has  effected  it,  fether." 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  where  she  stood,  like 
a  "ruod  fairy  in  his  house,  and  said  in  a  tone  of 
so. tened  gratitude  and  jjfrateful  kindness,  "It 
is  always  you,  my  child." 

"  We  had  our  fears,"  Sissy  explained, 
glauL-uig  at  Louisa,  "before  yes  erday ;  and 
when  1  saw  you  brought  to  the  side  of  the  lit- 
ter last  night,  and  heard  what  passed  (being 
el  'se  to  Kachael  all  the  time),  I  went  to  him 
when  no  one  saw,  and  said  to  him,  '  Don't 
look  at  me  !  See  where  your  father  is.  Es- 
cape at  once,  fbr  his  sake  and  your  own !'  He 
was  iu  a  tremble  before  1  whispered  to  him, 
and  he  started  and  trembled  more,  and  said, 
'  vV'here  can  I  go  ?  I  have  very  little  money, 
and  1  don't  know  who  will  hide  me!'  1 
thought  of  father's  old  circus.  I  have  not 
forgotten  where  Mr.  Sleary  goes  at  this  time 
ot  year,  and  I  read  of  him  in  a  paper  only  the 
other  day.  I  told  him  to  hurry  there,  aud 
teil  his  name,  and  ask  Mr.  Sleary  to  hide  him 
tUl  I  came.  '  i'll  get  to  him  betbre  the  morn- 
ing,' he  said.  And  I  saw  him  shrink  away 
am  iiig  the  people." 

'•  Tuank  God  !''  exclaimed  his  father.  "He 
may  be  got  abroad  yet." 

It  was  the  m^re  hopeful,  as  the  town  to 
which  Sissy  had  directed  him  was  within  three 
hours' journey  of  Liverpool,  whence  he  couM 
be  swiftly  despatched  to  any  part  of  the  world. 
Hut  caution  being  nect^ssary  in  communicating 
with  him — tor  thf  re  was  a  greater  danger  every 
raoineut  of  his  bring  suspected  now,  and  no- 
fa  >dy  could  be  sure  at  heart  but  that  Mr.  Boun- 
derby  himself,  in  a  bullying  view  of  public 
zeal,  might  play  a  Roman  part — it  was  con- 
sented th  .t  Sissy  and  Louisa  should  repair  to 
the  place  in  quesiion,  by  a  circuitous  course, 
alone;  and  that  the  unhappy  father,  setting 
forth  ai  another  time,  and  leaving  the  town  by 
an  op[)()site  direction,  should  get  round  to  the 
same  b  )urne  hy  another  and  wider  route.  It 
was  further  aiireed  that  he  should  not  present 
himself  to  Mr.  Sleary,  lest  his  intentions  should 
be  uiislrusted,  or  the  intellig>  nee  of  his  arrival 
should  cause  his  son  to  take  tliglit  anew;  but 
liiat  the  communicaiion  should  be  left  to  Sissy 
and  Louisa  to  open,  and  that  they  should  in- 
f  ir  n  the  cause  of  so  much  misery  and  disgrace 
of  hiS  father's  being  at  hand  and  of  the  pur- 
p  )se  fur  which  they  had  come.  When  these 
arrangements  had  been  well  considered  and 
werii  fully  understood  by  all  three,  it  was  time 
t  >  bejrin  t  >  carry  them  into  execution  Early 
i'l  the  afierijoon  Mr.  Gi'adgrind  walked  direct 
from  his  own  house  into  the  country,  to  t  e 
taken  up  on  the  line  l)y  which  he  was  to  travel; 
and  at  night  the  remaining  two  set  forth  upon 
their  different  course,  encouraged  by  not  see- 
ing any  lace  they  knew. 

The  two  travelled  all  <  ight,  except  when 
they  were  left  for  odd  numbers  of  minutes  at 


branch  places  up  illimitable  flights  of  steps  or 
down  wells — which  was  the  only  variety  of 
those  branches — and,  early  in  the  morning, 
were  turned  out  on  a  swamp,  a  mile  or  two 
from  the  town  they  sought.  From  this  dismal 
spot  they  were  rescued  by  a  sava  'e  old  postil- 
lion, who  happened  to  be  up  early,  kicking  a 
horse  in  a  fly,  and  so  were  smug!.ded  into  the 
town  by  all  the  back  lanes  where  the  pigs  lived : 
which,  although  not  a  rnagniticeni  or  even  sa- 
vory approach,  was,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases, 
the  legitimate  hiirhway. 

I  he  hrst  thing  they  saw  on  entering  the 
town  was  the  skeleton  of  Sleary's  Circus.  The 
company  had  departed  for  another  town  more 
than  twenty  miles  off,  and  had  opened  there 
last  night.  The  connexion  between  the  two 
places  was  by  a  hilly  turnpike  road,  and  the 
travelling  on  that  road  was  very  slow.  Though 
they  took  but  a  hasty  breakfast,  and  no  rest, 
(which  it  would  have  been  in  vain  to  seek  under 
such  anxious  circumstances,)  it  was  noon  Ije- 
fore  they  began  to  hnd  the  bills  of  Sleary's 
Horseriding  on  barns  and  walls,  and  one  o'clock 
when  they  st()[)ped  in  the  market  place. 

A  Grand  Morning  Perfjrmance  by  the  Rid- 
ers commenciiii^  at  that  v('i;y  hour,  was  in 
course  of  announcement  by  the  bellman  as 
they  set  their  leetupon  the  stonesof  the  street. 
hissy  recommended  that,  to  avoid  making  in- 
quiries aud  attracting  attention  in  the  town, 
they  shoidd  present  themselves  to  pay  at  the 
door.  If  Mr.  Sleary  were  taking  the  money, 
he  would  be  sure  to  know  her,  and  would  pro- 
ceed with  discretion.  It  he  were  not,  he  would 
be  sure  to  see  them  inside,  and  knowing  what 
he  had  done  with  the  i'ugitive,  would  proceed 
with  discretion  siill. 

Therefore  they  repaired  with  fluttering  hearts 
to  the  well-rememhered  booth.  The  flag  with 
the  inscription,  "Sleary's  Horse-Riding,"  was 
there,  and  the  Gothic  niche  was  there,  but  Mr. 
Sleary  was  not  there.  Master  Kidderminster, 
grown  too  maturely  turfy  to  be  receivi^d  by  the 
wildest  credulity  as  Cupid  any  more,  had  yield- 
ed to  the  invincible  force  of  circumstances  (and 
his  beard),  and  in  the  capacity  of  a  man  who 
made  himself  generally  useful,  presidedon  liiis 
occasion  over  the  excheiiuer — haviiiij  also  a 
drum  in  reserve,  on  which  to  expend  his  lei- 
sure moments  and  superfluous  forces.  In  the 
extreme  sharpness  of  his  look  out  lor  base  coin, 
Mr.  Kidderminster,  as  at  present  situated, 
never  saw  anything  but  money;  so  Sissy  pa>3- 
ed  him  unrecognised,  and  they  went  in. 

The  Emperorof  Japan  on  a  steady  old  white 
horse  stencilled  with  black  spots,  was  twirling 
live  wash-hand  basins  at  once,  as  it  is  the  fa- 
vcjrite  recri-aiion  of  that  monarch  to  do.  Sissy, 
though  well  aci|uainte<l  with  his  Royal  in.e, 
had  no  personal  knowledge  of  the  present  Em- 
])eror,  ari(l  his  rei;.'n  *as  peaceful.  Miss  Jose- 
phine Sleary  in  her  celebrated  graceful  Etpies- 
trian  Tyrolean  Flower  Act,  was  then  an- 
nounced liy  a  new  cli>wn(vvh(j  humorously  said 
Cauliflower  ^ci),  and  Mr.  Sleary  appeanJ, 
leading  her  ia. 


182 


DICKEXS'   NEW   STORIES. 


Mr.  Sleary  had  only  made  one  cut  at  the 
Clown  with  his  lonp  whip  lash,  and  the  Clown 
had  only  said,  "If  you  do  it  again,  Til  throw 
the  horse  at  you  !"'  when  Sissy  was  recognised 
both  by  father  and  daughter.  But  they  gut 
through  the  Act  with  great  self  possession,  and 
Mr.  Sleary,  saving  for  the  first  instant,  convey- 
ed no  more  expression  into  his  locomotive  eye 
than  into  his  fixed  one.  The  performance 
seemed  a  liule  long  to  Sissy  and  Louisa  in 
their  suspense,  particularly  when  it  stopped  to 
afford  the  Clown  an  opportunity  of  telling  Mr. 
Sleary  (who  said  "Indeed,  sir?"  to  all  his  ob- 
se'-valions  in  the  calmest  way,  and  witk  his 
eye  on  the  house)  about  two  legs  silting  on 
three  legs  looking  at  one  leg,  when  in  came 
four  legs,  and  hiiil  hold  of  one  lear,  and  up  got 
two  legs,  caught  hold  of  three  leg«i,  and  threw 
'em  at  four  legs,  who  ran  away  with  one  leg.' 
For  although  an  ingenious  Allegory  relating 
to  a  butcher,  a  three  legtied  stool,  a  dog,  and 
a  leg  of  mutton,  this  narrative  consumed  time, 
and  they  were  painfully  anxious.  At  last, 
however,  little  fair-haired  Josephine  made 
her  curtesy  amid  great  applause;  and  the 
Clown,  left  alone  in  the  ring,  had  just  warmed 
himself  and  said,  "  Now  i7Z  have  a  turn!" 
when  Sissy  was  touched  on  the  shoulder  and 
becki^ned  out. 

She  took  Louisa  with  her,  and  they  were 
received  by  Mr.  Sleary  in  a  very  little  private 
apartinetit.  with  canvas  sides,  a  grass  floor, 
and  a  wooden  ceiling  all  aslant,  on  which  the 
box  company  stamped  their  approbation  as  if 
thev  were  coming  through.  "Thethilia,"  said 
Mr.  Sleary.  who  had  brandy  and  water  at  hand, 
"it  doth  me  good  to  thee  you.  You  wath 
alwayth  a  favorite  with  uth,  and  you've  done 
nth  credit  thinth  the  old  timeth  I'm  thure. 
You  mutht  thee  our  people,  my  dear,  afore  we 
thpeak  of  bithnith,  or  they'll  break  their  hearth 
— ethpethially  the  women.  Here'th  Jothphine 
hath  been  and  got  married  to  E.  W.  B.  Chil- 
derth,  and  thee  hath  got  a  boy,  and  though 
he'th  only  three  yearth  old,  he  stickth  on  to 
any  ponv  you  can  bring  againtht  him.  He'th 
iiamnd  The  Little  Wonder  Of  Thcolathtic  Equi- 
tation; and  if  you  don't  hear  of  that  boy  at 
Athley'th,  you'll  hear  of  him  at  Parith. — 
And  you  recollect  Kidderminthter,  that  wath 
thought  to  be  rather  thweet  upon  yourthelf? 
Well.  He'th  matried  too.  Married  a  widder. 
Old  enough  to  he  hith  mother.  Thee  wath 
Tight  rope,  thee  wath,  and  now  thee'th  nothing 
— on  account  of  fat.  They've  got  two  chddien, 
tho  we're  thtrongin  the  Fairy  bithnith  and  the 
Nurthery  dodge.  If  you  wath  to  thee  our 
Children  in  the  Wood,  with  their  father  and 
mother  both  a  dyin'  on  a  horthe — their  unc^e  a 
rethieving  of  'em  ath  hith  wardth,  on  a  horthe, 
then  they  both  a  goin'  a  blackberryin'  on  a 
horthe — and  thellobinth  a  coming  to  cover  'em 
with  leavtii.  upon  a  horthe — you'd  thay  that 
Wath  the  completeth  thing  ath  ever  you  thet 
your  eyeth  on!  And  you  remember  Fmma 
Gordon,  my  dear,  ath  wath  a'rnotht  a  mother 
to  you  ?     Of  courthe  you  do;  I  needn't  athk. 


Well.  Emma,  thee  lotht  hrr  hulhband.  He 
wath  throw'd  a  heavy  back-lall  off  an  Elephant 
in  a  thTt  ol' Pagoda  thing  a'h  the  Thultan  of 
the  Indieth,  and  he  never  got  the  better  of  it, 
and  tiiee  married  a  thecond  time;  married  a 
Cheethemonger  ath  fell  in  love  with  her  from 
the  front,  and  he'th  a  Overtheer  and  niakii.'  a 
fortuu'l" 

These  various  changes  Mr.  Sleary.  very  short 
of  breath  now,  related  with  great  heartiness, 
and  with  a  wonderful  kiiid  of  innocence,  con- 
sidering what  a  bleary  and  brandy-and-watery 
old  veteran  he  was.  Afterwards  he  brought  in 
Josephine,  and  E.  W.  B.  Chil'^'ers  (rather 
deeply  lined  in  the  jaws  by  daylight)  ami  The 
Little  Wonder  of  Scholastic  Equitation,  and, 
in  a  word,  all  the  company.  Amazing  crea- 
tures thev  were  in  Louisa's  eyes,  so  white  and 
pink  of  complexion,  so  scant  of  dress,  and  so 
demonstrative  of  leg  ;  but  it  was  very  pleasant, 
for  all  that,  to  see  them  crowding  about  Sissy, 
and  very  natural  in  Sissy  to  be  uu.ible  to  re- 
frain from  tears. 

"There!  Now  Thethilia  hath  kitht  ail  the 
children,  and  hugged  all  the  women,  and  tha- 
ken  haiidth  all  round  with  the  men,  clear, 
every  one  of  you,  and  ring  in  the  band  for  the 
thecond  part!*'  said  Sleary. 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  he  cc>ntinned  in 
a  low  tone.  "  Now,  Thethilia,  I  don't  athk  to 
know  any  thecreth,  but  I  thiippothe  I  may 
consider  thith  to  be  Mith  Thquire." 

"This  is  his  sister.     Yes." 

"And  t'other  one'th  daughter.  Tliat'k 
w'hat  I  mean.  Hope  I  thee  you  well,  miih. — 
And  I  hope  the  Thquire'th  well?"' 

"  My  father  will  he  here  soon,"  said  Louisa, 
anxious  to  bring  him  to  the  point.  "Is  my 
brother  sale?" 

"  Thafe  and  thound  !"  he  replied.  '•  I  want 
you  jutht  to  take  a  peep  at  the  rin?,  mith, 
through  here.  Thethilia,  you  know  the  dodg- 
eth  ;  find  a  thpy-holefor  yourthelf" 

They  each  looked  through  a  chink  in  the 
boards. 

"That'th  Jack  the  Giant  Killer — a  piethe  of 
comic  infant  bithnith,"  said  Sleary.  "There'th 
a  proper' vhouthe,  ',  ou  thee,  for  Jack  to  hide 
in;  there'th  my  Clown  with  a  thaulhepan-bd 
and  a  thpit  for  Juck'th  thervant  ;  there'th  little 
Jack  himthelf  in  athplenoid  thoot  of  armour; 
there'th  t^vo  comic  black  thervanth  twithe  ath 
big  ath  the  houthe,  to  thand  by  it  and  lobrin^ 
it  in  and  clear  it, ;  and  the  Giant  (a  very  ex- 
penthive  baihket  one),  he  an't  on  yet.  Now 
do  you  thee  'em  all?" 

"Yes,"  they  both  said. 

"  Look  at  'em  again,'  said  Slearv,  "  look  at 
'em  well.  You  thee  'em  all  ?  Very  good. 
Now,  mith  ;"  he  put  a  form  for  them  to  sit  on  ; 
"  I  have  my  opinionth,  and  the  Thquire  your 
father  hath  hith.  I  don't  want  to  know  what 
your  brother'th  been  u[>  to;  ith  better  for  me 
not  to  know.  All  I  thay  ith,  the  Thquire  hath 
thtood  by  Thethilia,  and  I'll  thtand  by  the 
Thquire  Your  brother  ith  one  o'  them  black 
thervanth." 


HARD  TIMES. 


183 


Louisa  uttered  an  exclamation,  partly  of  dis- 
tress, partly  of  satisfaction. 

"Itli  a  fact,"  said  Sleary,  "and  even  know- 
in  that,  you  couldn't  put  your  finper  on  him. 
Let  the  Tliquire  come.  I  thall  keep  your  bro- 
ther here  after  the  performanth.  I  thaut  un- 
dreth  him,  nor  yei  wath  hilh  paint  off".  Let  the 
Thquire  come  here  after  the  performanth,  or 
come  here  yourthelf  after  llie  performanth.  and 
you  thai!  find  your  brother,  and  have  the  whole 
plathe  to  talk  to  him  in.  Never  mind  the  lookth 
of  him  ath  long  ath  he'th  well  hid.'' 

Louisa,  with  many  tb.anks  and  with  a  lijiht- 
ened  load, detained  Mr.  Sleary  no  binder  then. 
She  left  her  love  for  her  brother,  with  her  eyes 
full  of  tears,  and  she  and  Sissy  went  away  until 
later  in  the  afternoon. 

Mr.  Gradgrind  arrived  within  an  hour  after- 
wards. He  too  had  encountered  no  one  whom 
he  knew,  and  was  now  sanguine,  with  Sleary's 
assistance,  of  getting  his  disgraced  son  to  Li- 
verpool in  the  night.  As  neither  of  the  three 
could  be  his  companion  without  almost  identi- 
fying him  under  any  disguise,  he  prepared  a 
letter  to  a  correspondent  whom  he  could  trust, 
beseeching  him  to  ship  the  bearer  off  at  any 
cost,  to  North  or  South  America,  or  any  dis- 
tant part  of  the  world  to  which  he  could  be  the 
most  speedily  and  privately  dispatched.  This 
done,  they  walked  about,  waiting  for  the  Cir- 
cus to  be  quite  vacated  :  nut  only  by  the  audi- 
ence, but  l)y  the  company  and  by  the  horses. — 
After  watching  it  a  long  time,  they  saw  Mr. 
Sleary  bring  uut  a  chair  and  sit  down  by  the 
side  door,  smoking,  as  if  that  were  his  signal 
that  they  mii^ht  approach. 

*'  Your  thervant,  Thquire,"  was  his  cautious 
salutation  as  they  passed  in.  "  If  you  want 
me  you'll  find  me  here.  You  muthn't  mind 
your  son  having  a  comic  livery  on." 

They  all  three  went  in,  and  Mr.  Graderind 
sat  down,  forlorn,  on  the  Clown's  performing 
chair  in  the  middle  of  the  ling.  On  one  of 
the  back  benches,  remote  in  the  subdued  light 
and  the  strangeness  of  the  jjlace,  sat  the  vil- 
lanous  whelp,  sulkv  to  the  last,  whom  he  had 
the  misery  to  call  his  son. 

In  a  preposterous  coat,  like  a  beadle's,  with 
cuffs  and  flaps  exaggerated  to  an  unspeakable 
extent,  in  an  immense  waistcoat,  knee-breeches 
buckltd  shoes,  and  a  mad  cocked-hat,  with 
nothing  fitting  him,  and  everything  of  coarse 
material,  moth-eaten  and  full  of  holes ;  with 
seams  in  his  black  face,  where  fear  and  heat 
had  started  through  the  greasy  composition 
daubed  all  over  it ;  anything  so  grimly,  detest- 
ably, ri'iiculously  shameful  as  the  whelp  in  his 
comic  livery,  Mr.  Gradgrind  never  could  by 
any  other  means  have  believed  in,  weighable 
and  measurable  fact  though  it  was.  And  one 
of  his  model  children  had  come  to  this  ! 

At  first  the  whelp  would  not  draw  any  near- 
er, but  persisted  in  remaining  up  there  by  him- 
self. Yielding  at  length,  if  any  concession  so 
sullenly  made  can  be  called  yielding,  to  the 
entreaties  of  Sissv — for  Louisa  he  disowned 
altogether — he  came  down   bench  by    bench 


until  he  stood  in  the  sawdust,  on  the  ver:re  of 
the  circle,  as  i'ar  as  possible,  within  its  limits, 
from  where  his  father  sat. 

"How  was  this  done?" asked  the  father. 

"  How  was  what  done  ?"  moodily  inquired 
the  son. 

I  This  robbery,"  said  the  father,  raising  his 
voice  upon  the  word. 

"I  forced  the  safe  mv.self  over  ni^/ht,  and 
shut  it  up  ajar  before  I  went  awav.  I  had  the 
key  that  was  found  made  long  V)eVore.  1  drop- 
ped it  that  morning,  that  it  might  be  supposed 
to  have  been  used.  I  didn't  take  the  money 
all  at  once ;  I  pretended  to  put  mv  balance 
away  every  night,  but  I  didn't.  Now  you 
know  a'l  about  it. 

"If  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  on  me,"  said 
the  fiithcr,  "it  would  have  shocked  me  less 
than  this." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  returned  the  son.  "So 
many  people  are  employed  in  situati'^ns  of 
trust ;  so  many  people  out  of  so  many  will  he 
dishonest.  I  have  heard  you  talk,  a  hundred 
times,  of  its  being  a  law.  How  can  I  helplaws? 
You  have  comforted  others  with  such  things, 
father.     Comfort  yourself. 

The  father  burled  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
the  son  stood  in  his  disgraceful  grot  sf|ueHe8S, 
biting  straw.  His  hands,  with  the  black  pirt- 
ly  worn  away  inside,  looking  like  the  hands  of 
a  monkey.  The  evening  was  fast  closing  in, 
and  from  time  to  time  he  turned  the  whites  of 
his  eyes  restlessly  and  impatiently  towards  his 
father.  They  were  the  only  parts  of  his  face 
that  showed  any  life  or  expression,  the  pigment 
upon  it  was  so  thick. 

"  You  must  be  got  to  Liverpool,  and  sent  on 
board." 

"  I  suppose  I  must.  I  can't  be  more  miser- 
able anywhere,"  whimpered  the  whelp,  "ihan 
I  have  been  here,  ever  since  I  can  remember. 
That's  one  thing." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  went  to  the  door,  and  re- 
turned with  iSieary  ;  to  whom  he  submitted  the 
question — how  to  get  this  deplorable  object 
away. 

"  vVhy,  I've  been  thinking  of  it,  Thquire. — 
There'th  not  muth  time  to  lothe,  tho  you  inuth 
thay  yeth  or  no.  Ith  over  twenty  mileth  to 
the  rail.  Thereth  a  coath  in  half  an  liour,  that 
gothe  io  the  rail,  purputhe  to  caih  the  mail 
train.  That  train  will  take  him  right  to  Liver- 
pool." 

"But look  at  him,"  groaned  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
'•  Will  any  coach — " 

"I  don't  mean  that  he  thotild  go  in  the 
comic  livery,"  said  Sleary.  "  Thay  the  word, 
and  I'll  make  a  jothkin  of  him  outot  the  ward- 
robe in  five  minutes." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 

"A  jothkin — a  carter.  Make  up  your  mind 
quick,  Thquire  ;  there'll  be  beer  to  feth.  I've 
never  met  with  nothing  but  beer  alh'll  ever 
clenn  a  comic  blackamoor." 

Mr.  Gradgrind  rajiidly  assented.  Mr.  Sleary 
rapidlv  turned  out  from  a  box  a  smock  frock, 
a  felt    hat,    aud    other  essentials ;    the  whelp 


ig4 


DICKENS'   NKW   STORIES. 


rapidly  chanj^ed  clothes  behind  a  screen  of 
baize;  Mr.  Sleary  rapidly  brought  beer,  and 
wasiied  him  white  a^'aiii. 

"Xow,"  said  Sleary,  "come  along  to  the 
coath,  and  jump  up  behind;  I'll  go  with  you 
there,  and  the}*ll  thuppothe  you  one  of  my 
people.  Thiiy  fa'-eweil  to  your  family,  and 
tharp'lh  the  word."  With  which  he  delicately 
retired. 

"Here  is  your  letter,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind. 
'  k\\  iiecessHry  means  will  be  provided  for  you. 
Atone  by  re[)eiUanL'e  and  better  conduct  for 
this  shocking  act  of  dishonesty,  and  the  dread- 
ful conseijuences  towiiicliit  has  led.  Give  me 
your  hand,  my  pour  boy,  and  may  God  forgive 
you,  as  I  do." 

The  cu'prit  ws  moved  to  a  few  abject  tears 
by  these  words,  and  their  pathetic  tone.  But 
when  Louisa  opened  her  arms,  he  repulsed  her 
afresh. 

"  Not  you.  No.  I  don't  want  to  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  you." 

'  < )  Tom,  Tom,  do  we  end  so,  after  all  my 
love  ?" 

"After  all  your  love !"  he  returned,  obdu- 
rately. "  Pretty  love  1  Leaving  old  Bounder- 
)iv  to  himself,  and  packing  my  best  friend, 
Mr.  Harihouse,  otf,  and  i{oing  home  just  when 
1  was  m  the  greatest  danger.  Pretty  love  that! 
C  )minir  out  with  every  word  about  our  having 
^*>ne  to  that  place,  when  you  saw  the  net  was 
gathering  round  me.  Pretty  love  that !  You 
have  regularly  given  me  up.  You  never  cared 
for  (ut-." 

"  Th  irp'th  the  word  I"  said  Sleary,  at  the 
d'lor 

They  all  confusedly  went  out,  Louisa  crying 
to  him  that  she  forgave  him  his  ingratitude, 
and  loved  him  still,  and  that  he  would  one  day 
be  sorri"  to  have  left  her  so,  and  glad  to  think 
of  those  her  lasl  words  when  far  away ;  when 
some  cue  ran  against  them.  Mr.  Gradgrind 
aud  Sissy,  who  were  both  before  him  while  his 
sister  yet  clung  to  his  shoulder,  stopped  and 
recoiled. 

For  there  was  Bitzer,  out  of  breath,  his  thin 
lips  parted,  his  thin  nostrils  distended,  his 
wbite  eye-lashes  quivering,  his  colorless  face 
more  colorless  than  ever,  as  if  he  ran  himself 
into  a  white  heat,  wher  other  people  ran  them- 
selves into  a  glow.  There  he  stood,  panting 
and  heaving  as  if  he  had  never  stopped  since 
the  niirht,  now  long  ago,  when  he  had  run  them 
down  before. 

'■I'm  sorry  to  interfere  with  your  plans," 
said  Bitzer,  shaking  his  head,  "but  I  can't 
allow  myself  to  be  done  by  horse-rideis.  I  must 
have  young  Mr.  Tom  ;  he  musu't  be  got  away 
by  horseriders ;  here  he  is  in  a  smock  frock, 
and  I  must  have  him." 

By  the  collar,  too,  it  seemed ;  for  so  he  took 
possession  o^him. 


CHAPTER  XXX VL 

Thf'v  went  back  into  the  booth,  Sleary  shut- 
ti.ig  tile  dour  to  keep  intruders  out,  and  Bitzer, 


still  holding  the  paralyzed  culprit  by  the  collar, 
stood  in  the  ring  blinking  at  his  old  patron 
through  the  darkness  of  the  twilight. 

"B'tzer,"  said  .Mr.  Gradgrind,  broken  down, 
and  miserably  submissive  to  him,  "have  you  a 
heart  ?"' 

"The  circulation,  sir,"  returned  Bitzer,  smil- 
intr  ai  the  oddity  of  the  question,  "couldn't  be 
carried  on  without  one.  No  man,  sir,  acquaint- 
ed wiih  the  facts  estaldished  by  Harvey,  relat- 
ing to  the  circulation  of  the  blood,  can  doubt 
that  I  must  have  a  heart." 

"Is  it  accessible,"  cried  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "to 
any  c>jmpassionate  influence?" 

"It  is  accessible  to  reason,  sir,"  returned  the 
excellent  young  man — "and  to  nothing  else." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other,  Mr.  Grad- 
grind's  face  as  white  as  the  pursuer's. 

"What  motive  —even  what  motive  in  reason, 
can  you  have  for  preventing  the  escape  of  this 
wretched  youth,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "and 
crushing  his  miserable  father?  See  his  sister 
here.     Pity  us !" 

'Sir,''  returned  Bitzer,  in  a  very  business- 
like and  logical  manner,  "since  you  ask  me 
what  motive  I  have  in  rea>on  for  taking  young 
Mr.  Tom  back  to  Coketown,  it  is  only  reason- 
able to  let  you  know.  I  have  suspected  young 
Mr.  Tom  of  this  Bank  robbery  from  the  first. 
I  had  had  my  eye  upon  him  before  that  time, 
and  I  knew  his  ways.  I  have  kept  my  observa- 
tions to  myself,  but  I  have  made  them,  and,  I 
have  got  ample  proof's  against  him  now,  besides 
his  running  away,  and  besides  his  own  confes- 
sion, which  I  was  just  in  time  to  overhear.  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  watching  your  h'luse  yes 
tfcr'ay  morning,  and  following  you  here.  I  am 
going  to  take  young  Mr. Turn  back  tij Coketown, 
in  order  to  deliver  him  over  to  Mr.  Bounderb). 
Sir,  I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  Mr.  Boun- 
derby  will  then  promote  me  to  young  Mr. 
Tom's  situation.  And  I  wish  to  have  his  situ- 
ation, sir,  for  it  will  be  a  rise  to  me  and  will 
do  me  good." 

"if  this  is  solely  a  question  of  selfinterest 
with  you "  Mr.  Gradgrind  began. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  interrupting  you, 
sir,"  said  B  tzer;  "but  I  am  sure  you  know 
that  the  whole  social  system  is  a  question  of 
selt'-interest.  What  you  must  alwa\s  appeal 
to,  is  a  person's  self-interest.  It's  your  only 
hold.  We  are  so  constituted.  I  was  brought 
up  in  that  catechism  when  I  was  young,  sir, 
as  you  are  aware. 

"  What  sum  of  money,"  said  Mr  Gradgrind, 
"  will  you  set  against  your  expected  promo- 
tion ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Bitzer,"  "  for 
hinting  at  the  proposal ;  but  I  will  not  set  any 
sum  against  it.  Knowing  that  your  clear  head 
would  prepose  that  alternative,  I  have  gone 
over  the  calculations  in  my  mind  ;  and  I  find 
that  to  compound  a  felony,  even  on  very  high 
terms  indeed,  would  not  be  as  safe  and  good 
for  me  as  my  improved  pro-^pects  in  the  Bank." 

"  Bitzer,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  stretching 
out  his  hands  as  though  he  would  have  said — 


HARD  TIMES. 


lf?5 


See  how  miserable  I  am  !  "  Biizer,  I  have  but 
one  chance  left  to  soften  you.  You  were  many 
years  at  my  school.  If,  in  remembrance  of  the 
pains  bestowed  on  you,  you  can  persuade 
yourself  in  any  degree  to  disregard  your  pro- 
tsent  ititeresc  and  release  my  son,  I  entreat 
and  pray  you  to  give  him  the  beuefit  of  that 
remembrance." 

"I  really  wonder,  sir,"  rejoined  the  old  pu- 
pil, in  an  argumentative  manner,  '•  to  find  you 
takin.'  a  position  so  untenable.  My  .-chooling 
was  paid  for ;  it  was  a  bargain ;  and  when  i 
came  away,  ilie  bargain  ended." 

It  was  a  fundamental  principle  of  the  Grad- 
grind  phdosophy,  that  everything  was  to  be 
paid  for.  Nobody  was  ever  on  any  account  to 
give  anybody  anything,  or  render  anybody  help 
without  return,  (latitude  was  to  be  abolished, 
and  the  virtues  springing  from  it  were  not  to 
be.  The  whole  existence  of  mankind,  from 
birth  to  death,  was  to  be  a  bargain  across  a 
counter.  And  if  we  did'ut  get  to  Heaven  that 
way,  it  was  not  a  politico  economical  place,  and 
we  had  no  business  there 

"  I  don't  deny,'"  added  Bitzer,  "  that  my 
schooling  was  cheap.  But  that  comes  right. 
I  was  made  in  the  cheapest  market,  and  have 
to  dispose  of  myself  in  the  dearest." 

He  was  a  little  troubled  here,  by  Louisa  and 
Sissy  crying. 

"  Pray  don't  do  that,"  said  he,  "  it's  of  no 
us- doing  that ;  it  only  worries.  You  seem  to 
think  that  I  have  some  animosity  against 
young  Mr.  Tom  ;  whereas  I  have  none  at  all. 
I  am  only  going,  on  the  reasouable  grounds  I 
have  mentioned,  to  take  him  back  to  Coke- 
town.  If  he  was  to  resist,  I  should  set  up  the 
cry  of  Stop  Thief  1  But  he  won't  resist,  you 
muy  depend  upon  it." 

Mr.  Sleary,  who,  with  his  mouth  open  and 
his  rolliiiir  eye  as  immovably  jammed  in  his 
head  as  his  fixed  one,  had  listened  to  those 
doctrines  with  profound  attention,  here  stepped 
forward 

"Thijuire,  you  know  perfectly  well,  and  your 
daughter  knowth  perfectly  well  (better  than 
you,  becauthe  I  thed  it  to  her)  that  I  didn't 
know  what  your  thon  had  done,  and  that  1 
didn't  want  to  know — that  I  thed  it  wath  better 
not,  though  I  only  thought  it  wath  some  tliky- 
larking.  However,  thith  young  man  having 
made  it  knov/n  to  be  a  robbery  of  a  bank,  why, 
that'ih  a  theriouth  thing;  math  too  tberiouih 
a  thing  tor  me  to  compound,  ath  thith  young 
man  hath  very  properly  called  it ;  conthe- 
quently,  Thquire,  you  muth'nt  quarrel  with 
me  if  I  take  thith  young  man'th  thide,  and  thav 
he'th  right  and  there'th  no  help  for  it.  But  1 
tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Thquire;  I'll  drive  your 
thon  and  thith  young  man  over  to  the  rail,  and 
prevent  expothure  here.  I  can't  conthent  to 
do  more,  but  I'll  do  that." 

Fre->h  lamentations  trom  Louisa,  and  deeper 
affliction  on  Mr.  (iradgrind's  part  followed  ihis 
desertion  of  them  by  their  last  irietul.  But 
Si-^sy  glanced  at  him  wiih  threat  attention;  nor 
did  she  iu  her  ovvu  breast  misunderstand  iiim. 


for  as  they  were  all  going  out  again,  he  favored 
her  with  one  slight  roll  of  his  movable  eye,  de- 
siring her  to  linger  behind.  As  he  locked  the 
door  he  said  excitedly: 

"The  Thquire  thiood  by  you,  Thethilia,  and 
I'll  thtand  by  the  Thquire.  More  than  that. 
Thith  ilh  aprethioulh  raihcal  and  belongih  :o 
that  bluthteriiu  Cove  that  my  p<'o|ile  nt-arlv 
pitht  out  o'  winder.  It'll  bea'dark  night;  r\e 
got  a  horthe  that'll  do  anything  Inii  ih)fiik; 
I've  j^ot  a  pony  that'll  go  fifteen  mile  an  hour 
with  Childerth  driving  of  him  ;  I've  got  a  (lnj; 
that'll  keep  a  man  to  one  plathe  four-and- 
twenty  hourth.  Get  a  word  with  the  young 
Thquire.  Tell  him  when  he  theeth  our  hurt  ho 
begin  to  dantli,  not  to  be  afraitl  of  being  thjnlt, 
but  to  look  out  for  a  pony  gig  coming  up.  Tell 
him  when  he  theeth  that  ^'ig  clothe  b\,  to  jump 
down,  and  it'll  take  him  utf  at  a  rauling  jiiithe. 
If  my  dog  leth  thith  young  man  tliiira  peg  or 
foot,  I  give  him  leave  to  go.  And  it  my  horthe 
everthtirth  from  that  thpot  where  he  beginih 
a  danlhing,  till  the  morning — I  don't  know 
him!  Tharp'ih  the  word  !'' 

The  wnrd  was  so  sharp  that  in  ten  minutes 
Mr.  Childers,  sauntering  about  the  market 
place  in  a  pair  of  slippers,  had  his  cue,  and 
Mr.  Sleary's  equipage  was  read\.  It  was  a 
fine  sight,  to  behold  the  learned  dog  barking 
round  it,  and  Mr.  Sleary  instructing  him  wiih 
his  one  practicable  eye,  that  Bitzt-r  was  the 
object  of  his  particular  attentions.  Soun  atier 
dark  they  all  three  got  iu  and  started  ;  ihe 
learned  dog  (a  fonnidable  creature)  already 
pinning  Bitzer  with  his  eye,  and  sticking  clo.-e 
to  the  wheel  on  his  side,  that  he  might  be 
ready  for  him  in  the  event  of  his  showing  the 
slightest  disposition  to  alight. 

The  three  sat  up  at  the  inn  all  night  in 
great  suspense;  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing Mr.  Sleary  and  the  dog  re-appeared  :  both 
iu  high  spirits. 

"  All  right,  Thquire!"  said  Mr.  Sleary,  "your 
thon  may  be  aboard  a  thipby  thiih  lime.  Chil- 
derth took  him  otl',  an  hour  and  a  half  after  we 
left  latht  night.  'I'he  horthe  danthed  the  Polka 
till  he  wath  dead  beat  (he  would  have  walthed 
if  he  hadn't  been  in  harneth)  and  then  I  gave 
him  the  word  and  he  went  to  thleep  comt'ort- 
able.  Bitther  thed  he'd  go  fur'ard  and  the 
dog  hung  on  to  hith  iieckhandercher  with  all 
four  l-egth  in  the  air,  and  pulled  him  down  and 
rolled  him  over.  Tho  he  come  back  into  the 
drag,  and  there  he  that  till  I  got  the  better  of 
the  acthident  and  turned  the  horlhe'lh  head 
at  half  path  thixth  thith  morning." 

Mr.  Gradgriud  overwhelmed  him  with 
thanks,  of  course,  and  hinted  as  delicately  as 
he  could,  at  a  handsome  remuneration  in  mo- 
ney. 

"Well!  I  don't  want  money  my  theU",  Thquire; 
but  Childerth  ilh  a  family  man,  and  if  you  wath 
to  like  to  offer  him  a  five  pound  note,  it  mightn't 
be  unactheptable.  Likt'withe  if  you  A-alh  to 
thtand  a  collar  for  the  dog,  or  a  thet  of  bellth 
for  the  horthe,  I  thould  be  very  glad  to  take 
'em.     Brandy  and  water  I  alwa^lh  take."     He 


186 


DICKEXS'   NEW   STORIES. 


had  already  called  for  a  glass,  and  now  called 
for  another.  "If  you  wouliln't  think  it  going 
too  far,  Thquire,  to  make  a  little  ihpread  for 
the  company  at  about  threo  and  tliix  ahead, 
not  reckoning  Lnih,  it  would  make  'em  happy." 

All  these  little  tokens  of  his  gratitude,  Mr. 
Gl'adgrind  very  willinijly  undertook  lo  render. 
Though  he  thought  them  far  too  slight,  he  said, 
for  such  a  servi(  e. 

"Very  well,  Thquire  ;  then  if  you'll  only 
give  a  horthe-riding  a  betlipeak  whenever  you 
can,  you  11  more  than  halanthe  the  account. 
Now,  Thquire,  if  your  daughter  will  excuthe 
m'-,  I  thould  like  one  parting  word  with  you." 

Louisa  and  Sissy  withdrew  into  an  adjoining 
room,  and  Mr.  Sleary,  stirring  and  drinking 
his  brandy  and  water  as  he  stood,  went  on  : 

"Thquire,  you  don't  need  to  be  told  that 
dogth  ilh  wonderful  animalth." 

"Their  instinct"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "is  sur- 
prising." 

"  Whatever  you  call  it — and  I  am  bletht  if 
I  know  what  to  call  it,"  said  Sleary,  it  ith,  no 
doubt,  athonithin.  The  way  in  which  a  dog'U 
find  you — the  distanthe  he'll  come!" 

"  His  scent,"  said  Mr.  Gradgrind,  "  being  so 
fine." 

"  I'm  bletht  if  I  know  what  to  call  it," 
repeated  Sleary,  shaking  his  head.  "But  I 
have  had  dogth  find  me,  Thquire,  in  a  way  that 
made  me  think  whether  that  dog  hadn't  gone 
to  another  dog,  and  thed,  'You  don't  happen  to 
know  a  perthonofthe  name  of  1  bleary,  do  you? 
Perthon  by  the  nameof  Thleary,in  the  Horthe- 
i  iding  way — thtout  man — game  eye?'  And 
whether  that  dog  mightn't  have  thed,  'Well,  I 
can  t  thay  I  know  him  mythelf,  but  I  know  a 
dog  that  I  think  would  be  likely  to  be  acquaint- 
ed with  him.'  And  whetk.ir  that  dog  mightn't 
have  thought  it  over,  and  thed,  '  Thleary, 
Thleary  !  0  yeth,  to  be  thure  !  A  friend  of 
mine  lived  with  him  at  one  time.  I  can  get 
you  hith  addreth  directly.'  In  consequentli  of 
my  being  before  the  public,  and  going  about 
tho  muth,  you  thee,  there  mutht  be  a  number 
of  dogth  acquainted  with  me,  Thquire,  that  I 
don't  knuw  !" 

Mr.  (iradgrlnd  seemed  to  be  quite  confound- 
ed by  this  speculation. 

"  Any  way,"  said  Sleary,  after  putting  his 
lips  to  his  brandy  and  water,  "ith  fourteen 
months  ago,  Thquire,  thinth  we  wath  at  Cheth- 
ter — and  very  good  bithnith  we  wath  doing. 
We  wath  getting  up  our  Children  in  the  Wood 
one  morning,  wlien  there  cometh  into  our  Hing, 
by  the  thtage  door,  a  dog.  He  had  travelled  a 
long  way,  he  wath  in  very  bad  condithon,  he 
wath  lame,  and  pretty  well  blind.  He  went 
round  to  our  children,  one  after  another,  as  if 
Le  wath  looking  for  a  child  he  know'd,  and 
then  he  come  to  me,  and  throwd  himthelf  up 
behind,  and  thtood  on  hith  two  fore-legth, 
weak  ath  he  wath,  and  then  he  wagged  liith 
tail  and  died.  Thquire,  that  dog  was  Merry- 
legth." 

"  Sissy's  father's  dog  1" 

"  Thethilia'th    father'th    old    dog.       Now, 


Thquire,  I  can  take  my  oath,  from  my  Icnowl- 
edge  of  that  dcig,  that  that  man  wath  dead — 
and  buried — afire  that  dog  came  back  to  me. 
doth'phine  and  Chil  lerth  and  me  talked  it  over 
a  long  time,  whether  I  thould  write  or  noL 
But  we  agreed  'No.  There'th  nolhing  com- 
fortable t(j  tell ;  why  unthettle  her  mind,  and 
make  her  unhappy  ?'  1  ho,  whether  her  fiUher 
deiherted  her,  or  whether  he  broke  liith  own 
heart  alone,  rather  than  pull  her  down  along 
with  him,  never  will  be  known,  now,  Thquire, 
till — not  till  we  know  how  the  dogth  fiudth  uth 
out."' 

"  She  keeps  the  bottle  that  he  sent  her  for, 
to  this  hour;  and  she  will  i)elieve  in  his  affec- 
tion to  the  last  moment  of  her  life,"  said  Mr. 
Gradgrind. 

"It  theemth  to  prethent  two  thingth  to  a 
perthon,  don't  it,  Thqnire'?''  said  Mr.  Sleary, 
musing  as  he  looked  down  into  the  depths  of 
ills  brandy  and  water:  "one  tliat  there  ith  a 
love  in  the  world,  not  all  Thelf  interetht  after 
all,  but  thomething  very  different ;  t'other,  that 
it  hath  a  way  of  ith  own  of  calculating  or  not 
calculatitig,  whitli  thomehow  or  another  ith 
at  leatht  ath  hard  to  give  a  name  to,  ath  the 
wayth  of  the  dogth  ith  !" 

Mr.  Grad  'rind  looked  out  of  the  window,  and 
made  no  reply.  Mr.  Sleary  emptied  his  glass 
and  recalled  the  ladies. 

"  Thethilia  my  dear,  kith  me  and  good  bye  I 
Mith  Thquire,  to  thee  you  treating  of  her  like 
a  thithter,  and  a  thithter  that  you  trulht  and 
honor  with  all  your  heart  and  more,  ith  a  very 
pretty  thight  to  me.  I  hope  your  brother  may 
live  to  be  better  detherving  of  you,  and  a 
greater  comfort  to  you.  Thquire,  thake  handih 
tirtht  and  latht !  Don't  be  croth  with  nth  poor 
vagabondth.  People  mutht  beamuthed.  They 
can't  be  alwayth  a  learning,  nor  yet  they  can't 
be  alwayth  a  working ;  they  an't  made  ti^r  it. 
You  inufht  have  uth,  Thquire.  Do  the  withe 
thing  and  the  kind  thing  too,  and  make  the 
betht  of  uth  ;  not  the  wonht !"' 

"  And  I  never  thought  before, "  said  Mr. 
Sleary,  puttinjr  his  head  in  at  the  donr  a<raia 
to  say  it,  "that  I  wath  tho  muthot  a  Cacklerl  " 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

It  is  a  dangerous  thinor  to  see  anything  in 
the  sphere  of  a  vain  blusterer,  before  the  vain 
blusterer  sees  it  hiin-elf  Mr.  Bounderby  felt 
that  Mrs.  Sparsit  had  audacio'.islv  anticipated 
him,  aud  presumed  to  be  wiser  than  he.  In- 
appeasahly  indignant  with  her  for  her  trium- 
phant discovery  ot'Mrs.  Pegler,  he  turned  this 
presumption  on  the  part  of  a  woman  in  her 
dependent  position  over  and  over  in  his  mind, 
until  it  accumulated  with  turning  like  a  great 
snowball.  At  last  he  made  the  discovery  that 
to  discharge  this  highly  connected  female — to 
ha^  e  it  in  his  power  to  say,  "  She  was  a  woman 
of  I'ainily,  and  wanted  to  stick  to  me,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  it,  and  git  rid  of  her,"  would 
be  to  get  the  utmost  possible  amoui  t  of  crown- 
ing  glory  out  of  the    coauexiou,  and   at  the 


HARD  TIMES. 


1S7 


same  time  to  punish   Mrs.  Sparsit  according 
to  her  deserts 

Filled  fuller  than  ever,  with  this  tjn-at  idea, 
Mr.  Boimderhy  came  in  to  lunch,  and  sat  hini- 
selfdown  in  the  diainjj  room  of  former  days, 
where  liis  portrait  was.  Mrs.  Sparsit  .sat  by 
the  tire,  witli  her  foot  in  her  cotton  stirrup, 
litrle  ihinkinii;  whilht-r  she  was  postincr. 

Since  the  Pe^;ler  atlair,  this  gentlewunian  had 
covered  her  pity  fir  Mr.  Bounderby  with  a  veil 
of  quiet  nifJaiichuly  and  contrition.  In  virtue 
thereof,  it  had  become  her  iiablt  to  assume  a 
wufdl  look,  which  wuful  look  she  now  bestowed 
upon  her  patron. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you.  ma'am?''  said 
Mr.  Bouiideriiy  in  a  very  short,  rou^h  way. 

"Prav,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Spar.-,it,  "do  not 
bite  mv  nose  off." 

"Bite  vuur  nose  o(f,  ma'am  I''  repeated  Mr. 
Bouiiderbv.  "I'^ur  nose  !''  meaning,  as  Mrs. 
Sparsit  conceived,  that  it  was  too  developed  a 
nose  for  the  purpose.  After  which  oifensive 
implication  he  cut  himself  a  crust  of  bread  and 
threw  the  knife  down  with  a  noi>e. 

Mrs.  Spirsit  took  her  foot  out  of  the  stirrup, 
and  said,  "'  .Mr.  Bounderby,  sir!'' 

"  Well,  ini'am  ?"  retorted  Mr.  Bounderby. 
"  What  are  you  starinj,'  at?" 

"  May  1  a-k,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Sparsit,  "have 
you  l)een  rulHed  this  morning?'' 

'•  Yes.  ma'am." 

•'  May  I  iii^uire,  sir,"  pursued  the  injured 
woman,  "  whether  /am  the  utifortunate  cause 
of  your  having  lost  your  temper?'' 

''  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  ma'am,"  said 
Biua.lerbv,  "I  am  not  come  here  to  be  bul- 
bed. A  female  may  be  highly  connected,  but 
she  can  iH)t  be  p^^rmitied  to  bother  and  badger 
a  tnan  in  my  position,  and  I  am  not  ijoing  to 
p«it  up  with  it."  (Mr.  Bound.Mby  felt  it  ne- 
cessary to  go  on,  foreseeing  ih^At  if  he  allowed 
of  details,  he  would  be  beaen.) 

Mrs.  .Sparsit  first  elevated,  then  knitted  her 
Coriolaniaii  eyebrows;  gathered  up  her  wurk 
into  its  pro[ier  basket,  ami  rose. 

"  Sir,'  said  she,  majt-stically.  ''It  is  ap- 
parent to  me  that  I  am  in  ycnir  war  at  present. 
i  will  retire  to  my  own  apartmeiit.'' 

•'  .Allow  me  to  open  the  door,  ma'am." 

''Thank  you,  sir;  I  can  du  it  for  myself." 

"Yuti  had  better  allow  me,  ma'atn,"  said 
Bounderby,  passiuiT  her,  and  getting  his  hand 
upon  the  lock,  "because  I  can  lake  the  oppor- 
tunity of  saying  a  word  to  you,  before  you  go. 
Mrs.  Sjiarsit,  ma'atn,  I  rather  think  yon  are 
cramped  here,  do  you  know?  It  appears  to  me 
that  under  mv  humble  roof  there's  hardlj 
opening  enough  for  a  lady  of  your  genius  in 
other  peoj)'e's  affairs." 

Mrs.  vSparsit  gave  him  a  look  of  the  darkest 
scorn,  and  said  with  great  politeness,  "Really, 
sir?" 

'•I  have  been  thinking  it  over,  you  see,  since 
the  late  aff^iirs  have  happen^'d,  ma'atn,"  said 
Bounderiiv,  "and  it  ajipears  to  my  poor  judg- 
ni'^nt ' 

"Oh!    Tray,  sir,"  Mrs.  Sparsit  interposed. 


with  .sprightly  cheerfulness,  "don't  disparage 
your  judgment.  Everybody  knows  how  uner- 
ring vii-.  Bounilerby's  jud;.Muent  is.  Everybody 
has  had  proofs  of  it.  It  must  be  the  theme  of 
general  conversation.  Disparage  anything  in 
yourself  but  your  judgratnt,  sir,''  said  Mrs. 
Spar.-jit.  laughing. 

Mr.  Bounderby,  very  red  and  uu comfortable, 
resumed : 

''It  appears  to  me,  ma'am,  I  say,  that  a  dif- 
fer-^nt  sort  of  establishment  altogether,  «uuld 
bring  out  a  lady  of  V)ur  powers.  Sue'.:  an  e.<- 
tablishment  as  ymir  relation,  Lady  Scadgers' 
now.  Don't  you  think  you  might  find  some 
affairs  there,  ma'am,  to  interfere  with?" 

"  Jt  never  occurred  to  me.  before,  sir,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Sparsit,  in  a  liiiht,  social  style  of 
conversation  "but  now  you  mention  it,  1  should 
think  it  highly  probable.'' 

"  Then  suppose  you  try,  ma'am,"  said  Boun- 
derby, luying  an  envelope  with  a  chetjue  in  it, 
in  her  little  basket.  "  Vou  can  take  your  own 
time,  for  going,  ma'am,  but  perhaps  in  the 
memiwhile,  it  w.ll  be  more  agreeable  to  a  lady 
of  your  powers  of  mind,  to  eat  her  meals  by 
herself,  and  not  to  be  intruded  upon.  I  really 
ought  to  apologize  to  you — being  only  Jo.Mah 
Bounderby  of  Coketowu — for  having  stood  in 
your  light  so  long." 

"  Pray  don't  name  it,  sir,"  returned  Mrs. 
Sparsit.  "  if  that  portrait  could  speak,  sir, — 
but  it  has  the  advantage  over  the  original  of 
not  possessing  the  power  of  conunitting  itsi-lf 
and  disgusting  others, — it  would  testify  thtu  a 
long  period  has  ela})sed  since  1  first  habitually 
addressed  it  as  the  picture  of  a  Noodle.  Mo- 
thing  that  a  Noodle  does,  can  awaken  surprise 
or  indignation ;  the  proceedings  of  a  Noodle 
can  only  inspire  contempt." 

Thus  saying,  Mrs  Sparsit,  with  lier  Roman 
features  like  a  medal,  struck  to  commemorate 
h'T  scorn  of  Mr.  Bounderby,  surveyed  hnn 
fixedly  from  head  to  foot,  swept  disdainfully 
past  hiin,  and  ascended  the  staircase.  Mr. 
Bounderby  closed  the  door,  and  stood  before 
the  fire,  projecting  himself  after  his  old  e.\- 
plosive  manner  into  his  portrait — and  into 
futurity. 

Into  how  much  of  futurity?  He  saw  Mr.-^. 
Sparsit  fighting  out  a  daily  fight  at  the  points 
of  all  the  weapons  in  the  female  armory,  with 
the  grudging,  smarting,  peevish,  tormenting 
L  ady  Scadgers,  still  laid  up  in  bed  with  her 
mysterious  leg,  and  gobbling  her  insulficient 
income  down  by  about  the  middle  of  everv 
quarter,  in  a  mean  little  airless  loiiging,  a  mere 
closet  for  one,  a  mere  crib  for  two,  but  did  he 
see  more?  Did  he  catch  any  glimp.>e  of  him- 
self making  a  show  of  Bitzer  to  strangers  as 
the  rising  young  man.  so  devoted  to  his  mas- 
ter's great  merits,  who  had  now  young  Tom's 
place,  and  had  almost  captured  young  'i'om 
himself,  in  the  times  when  by  various  rascals 
he  was  spirited  awaN?  Did  he  see  any  faint  re- 
fiection  of  his  own  image  making  ti  vain-glori- 
ous will,  wh'  rebyfive-and-twenty  sell'-niaie  men 
past  fifty  years  of  age,  eai.h  taking  upon  himself 


188 


DICKENS'    NEW    STOIIIES. 


the  name,  Josiah  Bouiidcrby,  of  Cukttuwn, 
should  for  ever  iliiie  in  BoiUi<lerby  Hall,  tor 
ever  iodide  in  Bonuderby  Buildings,  tor  ever 
attend  a  Bouiiderby  cliajiel,  fur  ever  go  lo 
sleep  under  a  Bounderby  irhnplain,  tor  ever  be 
supjjorted  out  of  a  Bounderby  estate,  and  for 
evt-r  nauseate  all  lieulthy  stoinaelis  with  a 
vast  amount  of  Boundrrby  balderdash  and 
bluster?  Had  he  any  [)re.>cienie  of  tha'  day, 
five  yea^s  to  come,  when  Josiaii  Boundertjy.  i,f 
Cokeiuwn,  was  to  die  uf  a  til  in  the  Cokeiown 
Street,  and  ibis  same  precious  will  was  to  be^-'in 
ils  lonsj  career  of  ijuibble,  plunder,  fals  ■  pre- 
tences, meanness,  little  ^ervi(■e,  and  much 
care?  Probably  not.  Yet  the  portrait  was 
to  see  it  all  out. 

Here  was  Mr.  Gradgrind  on  the  same  diy, 
atid  in  the  same  hour,  sitting  thoughtful  in  his 
own  room.  How  much  of  luUirlty  did  he  see? 
bid  he  see  himself,  a  white-haired,  decn  pid 
man,  bending  bis  hitherto  iutiexible  theories  to 
appointed  circumstances;  making  his  tacts 
and  tigures  suDservient  to  t-aitli,  Ho[)e,  and 
Charily — and  no  1  'Hger  trying  to  grind  that 
heavenly  trio  in  his  dusty  little  mills  ?  Did  he 
catch  sight  of  himself  therefore  much  desjiised 
by  his  late  political  associates?  Did  he  see 
them,  in  the  era  of  its  being  quite  settletl  that 
the  national  dustmen  have  only  to  do  with  one 
another,  and  owe  no  duty  to  an  abstraction 
ca'Ied  a  People,  "taunting  the  honorable  gen- 
tleman" with  this  and  with  that,  and  with  what 
not,  five  nights  a-week,  until  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning?  Probably  he  had  so  much 
foreknowledge,  knowing  his  men. 

Here  was  Louisa  on  the  night  of  the  same 
day,  watching  the  tire  as  'ii  days  of  yore: 
tbouL'h  with  a  genthr  and  a  humbler  tace: 
How  much  of  the  tuture  might  arise  before 
/ie/' vision  ?  Broadsides  in  the  s'reets,  signed 
with  her  father's  name,  exonerating  the  late 
t^lephen  Blackpool,  weaver,  from  misplaced 
suspicion,  and  publishing  the  guilt  of  his  own 
unhappy  son,  with  such  extenuation  as  his 
years  and  temptation  (he  could  imt  bring  him 
self  to  add,  his  education)  might  beseech; 
were  of  the  Present.  So,  Stephen  Blackpool's 
tombstone,  with  her  father's  record  of  his 
death,  was  almost  of  the  Present,  for  she  knew 
it  was  to  be.  These  things  she  could  plainly 
see.     But  how  much  of  the  Future? 

A  working  woman,  christened  Kachael,  after 
a  long  illness,  once  again  appearing  at  the 
ringing  of  the  factory  bell,  and  passing  to  and 


fro  at  the  set  hours  among  the  Coketown  liar('s; 
a  kvunian  ot  a  pensive  beaut},  alwa\s  dressed 
in  black,  but  aweet-temp  led  an  i  serene,  abd 
even  cht-erlul;  a  woman  who,  ot  all  the  peojile 
in  the  place, aloneapptared  to  hav<-  compa&aioii 
on  a  degraded,  druiiken  wretch  ot  fier  own  sex, 
who  was  sometimes  seen  in  the  lown  secnlly 
begging  ol  her.  and  crying  to  her;  a  woinHU 
working,  ever  working,  but  content  to  cio  it, 
and  preferring  to  do  it  as  her  natural  lot,  un- 
til ,>he  should  be  loo  olii  In  lal)ur  any  more! 
Did  Loui.ia  see  this?     Such  a  thing  was  to  be, 

A  lonely  ttrother.  many  thousamls  of  miles 
away,  wriiing  on  pap^r  lilotted  with  tears,  iliat 
her  words  hail  soon  come  true,  and  that -all  the 
treasures  in  ihe  world  would  be  cheaply  bar- 
tered for  a  sight  of  herdear  face?  At  lengih, 
this  brother  coming  nearer  home,  with  hope  of 
.■•eeing  her,  and  being  delayed  by  illness  ;  and 
then  a  letter  in  a  strange  hand,  saving,  he  died 
iu  hospital,  of  fever,  such  a  dav,  and  died  of 
peniience  and  love  of  }ou:  his  last  word  being 
your  name;  ?  Did  Louisa  see  these  things  ? — 
Such  things  wt-re  to  be. 

Her&elt  again  a  wife — a  mother — lovingly 
watchful  of  her  childree,  evercaretul  ihatihey 
should  have  a  childhood  of  the  mind  no  le-s 
than  a  childhood  of  the  body,  as  knowing  it  to 
be  even  a  more  beautiful  thing,  and  any  hoard- 
ed scrap  of  the  former  a  blessing  and  liappi- 
ness  to  the  wisest?  Did  Louisa  see  thi-i  ? 
Such  a  thing  was  never  to  be. 

But  happy  Sissy's  happy  children  loviny  her ; 
all  children  loving  her;  she,  grown  learned  in 
childith  lore;  thinking  no  innocent  and  pieity 
fancy  ever  to  be  despised;  trying  hard  to  know 
her  humble  fellow-creatures  ;  and  to  beaniily 
their  lives  of  machinery  and  readily  wi  h  ih  se 
imaginative  graces  and  delights,  witho't  which 
the  heart  of  infancy  will  wither  up,  the  stiiidi- 
est  physical  manhood  will  be  morally  stark 
death,  and  the  plainest  national  prospeniy 
figures  can  show  will  be  the  Writing  on  the 
Wall;  she  holding  this  course  as  partof  no  fan- 
tastic vow,  or  bond,  or  brotherhood,  or  sister- 
hood, or  pledge,  or  covenant,  or  fancy  dress  or 
fancy  fair;  but  as  a  duty  to  be  done — did  Louisa 
se"  these  things  of  herself?  These  things  weie 
to  be! 

L)ear  reader!  It  rests  with  yn  and  nie 
whether,  in  our  two  fields  of  action,  similar 
things  shall  be  or  not.  Let  them  be.  We 
shall  sit  with  lighter  bosoms  on  the  hearth,  to 
see  the  ashes  of  our  fires  turn  gray  and  cold. 


LIZZIE    LEIGH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

When  Death  is  present  in  a  household  on 
a  Christmas  Day,  the  very  contrast  between 
the  time  as  it  now  is,  and  the  day  as  it  has 
often  been,  gives  a  poignancy  to  sorrow, — a 
more  utter  blankncss  to  the  desolation. 
James  Leigh  died  just  as  the  far  away  bells 
of  Rochdale  Church  were  ringing  for  morn- 
ing service  on  Christmas  Day,  1830.  A  few 
minutes  before  his  death,  he  opened  his 
already  glazing  eyes,  and  made  a  sign  to 
his  wife,  by  the  faint  motion  of  his  lips, 
that  he  had  yet  something  to  say.  She 
stooped  close  down,  and  caught  the  broken 
whisper,  "  I  forgive  her,  Anne  !  May  God 
forgive  me." 

"  Oh  my  love,  my  dear !  only  get  well, 
and  I  will  never  cease  showing  my  thanks 
for  those  words.  May  God  in  heaven  bless 
thee  for  saying  them.  Thou'rt  not  so  rest- 
less, my  lad  !  may  be — Oh  God  I" 

For  even  while  she  spoke,  he  died. 

They  had  been  two-and-twenty  years  man 
and  wife  ;  for  nineteen  of  those  years  their 
life  had  been  as  calm  and  happy,  as  the 
most  perfect  uprightness  on  the  one  side, 
and  the  most  complete  confidence  and  loving 
submission  on  the  other,  could  make  it. 
Milton's  famous  line  might  have  been  framed 
and  hung  up  as  the  rule  of  their  married 
life,  for  he  was  truly  the  interpreter,  who 
stood  between  God  and  her ;  she  would  have 
considered  herself  wicked  if  she  had  ever 
dared  even  to  think  him  austere,  though  as 
certainly  as  he  was  an  upright  man,  so 
surely  was  ho  hard,  stern,  and  inflexible. 
But  for  three  years  the  moan  and  the  mur- 
mur had  never  been  out  of  her  heart,  she 
had  rebelled  against  her  husband  as  against 
a  tyrant,  with  a  hidden  sullen  rebellion, 
which  tore  up  the  old  land-marks  of  wifely 
duty  and  affection,  and  poisoned  the  foun- 
tains whence  gentlest  love  and  reverence 
had  once  been  for  ever  springing. 

But  those  last  blessed  words  replaced  him 
on  his  throne  in  her  heart,  and  called  out 
penitent  anguish  for  all  the  bitter  estrange- 
ment of  later  years.   It  was  this  which  made 


her  refuse  all  the  entreaties  of  her  sons,  that 
she  would  see  the  kind-hearted  neighbors, 
who  called  on  their  way  from  church,  to 
sympathise  and  condole.  No !  she  would 
stay  with  the  dead  husband  that  had  spoken 
tenderly  at  last,  if  for  throe  years  he  had 
kept  silence  ;  who  know  but  what,  if  she  had 
only  been  more  gentle  and  Jess  angrily  re- 
served he  might  have  relented  earlier — and 
in  time  ! 

_  She  sat  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  by  the 
side  of  the  bed,  while  the  footsteps  below 
went  in  and  out;  she  had  been  in  sormw 
too  long  to  have  any  violent  burst  of  deep 
grief  now ;  the  furrows  were  well  worn  in 
her  cheeks,  and  the  tears  flowed  quietly,  if 
incessantly,  all  the  day  long.  But  when  the 
winter's  night  drew  on,  and  the  neighbors 
had  gone  away  to  their  homes,  she  sti)le  to 
the  window,  and  gazed  out,  long  and  wist- 
fully, over  the  dark  gray  moors.  She  did 
not  hear  her  son's  voice,  as  he  spoke  to 
her  from  the  door,  nor  his  footstep  as  he 
drew  nearer.  She  started  when  he  touched 
her. 

"  Mother !  come  down  to  us.  There's  no 
one  but  Will  and  me.  Dearest  mother,  we 
do  so  want  you."  The  poor  lad's  voice 
trembled,  and  he  began  to  cry.  It  appeared 
to  require  an  effort  on  Mrs.  Leigh's  part  to 
tear  herself  away  from  the  window,  but  with 
a  sigh  she  complied  with  his  rt-quest. 

The  two  boys  (for  though  Will  was  nearly 
twenty-one,  she  still  thought  of  him  as  a  la<l) 
had  done  everything  in  their  power  to  make 
the  house-place  comfortable  tor  her.  Slie 
herself,  in  the  old  days  before  her  sorrow, 
had  never  made  a  brighter  fire  or  a  cleaner 
hearth,  ready  for  her  husliand's  return  home, 
than  now  awaited  her.  The  tea-things  were 
all  put  out,  and  the  kettle  was  boiling:  and 
the  boys  had  calmed  their  grief  dow»  into  a 
kind  of  sober  cheerfulness.  They  paid  her 
every  attention  they  could  think  of,  but  re- 
ceived little  notice  on  hor  part  ;  she  did  not 
resist — she  rather  submitted  to  all  their 
arrangements  ;  but  they  did  not  seem  to 
touch  her  heart. 

When  tea  was  ended, — it  was  merely  the 
(189) 


190 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES. 


form  of  tea  that  had  been  gone  throiic^h, — 
Will  moved  the  things  away  to  the  dresser. 
His  mother  leant  back  languidly  in  her 
chair. 

"  Mother,  shall  Tom  read  you  a  chapter  ? 
He's  a  better  scholar  than  I." 

"  Aye,  lad !"  said  she,  almost  eagerly. 
"  That's  it.  Read  me  the  Prodigal  Son. 
Aye,  aye,  lad.     Thank  thee." 

Tom  found  the  chapter,  and  read  it  in  the 
high-pitched  voice  which  is  customary  in 
village  schools.  His  mother  bent  forward, 
her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  dilated  ;  her  whole 
body  instinct  with  eager  attention.  Will 
Bat  with  his  head  depressed  and  hung  down. 
He  knew  why  that  chapter  had  been  chosen, 
and  to  him  it  recalled  the  family's  disgrace. 
When  the  reading  was  ended,  he  still  hung 
down  his  head  in  gloomy  silence.  But  her 
face  was  brighter  than  it  had  been  before 
for  the  day.  Iler  eyes  looked  dreamy,  as  if 
she  saw  a  vision  ;  and  by  and  by  she  pulled 
the  Bible  towards  her,  and  putting  her  finger 
underneath  each  word,  began  to  read  them 
aloud  in  a  low  voice  to  herself;  she  read 
again  the  words  of  bitter  sorrow  and  deep 
humiliation  ;  but  most  of  all  she  paused  and 
brightened  over  the  fother's  tender  reception 
of  the  repentant  prodigal. 

So  passed  the  Christmas  evening  in  the 
Upclose  Farm. 

The  snow  had  f\xllen  heavily  over  the  dark 
waving  moorland,  before  the  day  of  the  fune- 
ral. The  black,  storm-laden  dome  of  heaven 
Liy  very  still  and  close  upon  the  white  earth, 
as  they  carried  the  body  forth  out  of  the  house 
which  had  known  his  presence  so  long  as 
its  ruling  power.  Two  and  two  the  mourners 
followed,  making  a  black  procession,  in  their 
winding  march  over  the  unbeaten  snow,  to 
Milne-Row  Church — now  lost  in  some  hol- 
h)W  of  the  bleak  moors,  now  slowly  climbing 
the  heaving  ascents.  There  was  no  long 
tarrying  after  the  funeral,  for  many  of  the 
neighbors  who  accompanied  the  body  to  the 
grave  had  far  to  go,  and  the  great  white 
flakes  which  came  slowly  down,  were  the 
boding  fore-runners  of  a  heavy  storm.  One 
old  friend  alone  accompanied  the  widow  and 
her  sons  to  their  home. 

The  Upclose  Farm  had  belonged  for  gen- 
erotions  to  the  Leighs  ;  and  yet  its  posses- 
sion hardly  raised  them  above  the  rank  of 
laborers.  There  was  the  house  and  out- 
buildings, all  of  an  old-fashioned  kind,  and 
about  seven  acres  of  barren  unproductive 
land,  which  they  had  never  possessed  capital 
enough  to  improve ;  indeed  they  could  hardly 
rely  upon  it  for  subsistence ;  and  it  had 
been  customary  to  bring  up  the  sons  to 
some  trade — such  as  a  wheelwright's  or 
blacksmith's. 

J^mes  Leigh  had  left  a  will,  in  the  pos- 
session of  the  old  man  who  accompanied 
them  home.  He  read  it  aloud.  James  had 
bequeathed  the  farm  to  his  faithful  wife, 


Anne  Leigh,  for  her  life-time  ;  and  after- 
wards, to  his  son  AVilliam.  The  hundred 
and  odd  pounds  in  the  savings'  bank  was  to 
accumulate  for  Thomas. 

After  the  reading  was  ended,  Anne  Leigh 
sat  silent  for  a  time  ;  and  then  she  asked 
to  speak  to  Samuel  Ormo  alone.  The  sons 
went  into  the  back  kitchen,  and  thence 
strolled  out  into  the  fields,  regardless  of  the 
driving  snow.  The  brothers  were  dearly 
fond  of  each  other,  although  they  were  very 
difi"erent  in  character.  Will,  the  elder,  was 
like  his  father,  stern,  reserved,  and  scrupu- 
lously upright.  Tom  (who  was  ten  years 
younger)  was  gentle  and  delicate  as  a  girl, 
both  in  appearance  and  character.  lie  had 
always  clung  to  his  mother,  and  dreaded  his 
father.  They  did  not  speak  as  they  walked, 
for  they  were  only  in  the  habit  of  talking 
about  facts,  and  hardly  knew  the  more 
sophisticated  language  applied  to  the  de- 
scription of  feelings. 

Meanwhile  their  mother  had  taken  hold  of 
Samuel  Orme's  arm  with  her  trembling  hand. 

"  Samuel,  I  must  let  the  farm — I  must." 

"Let  the  farm!  What's  come  o'er  the 
woman  ?" 

"  Oh,  Samuel !"  said  she,  her  eyes  swim- 
ming in  tears,  "  I'm  just  fain  to  go  and  live 
in  Manchester.     I  mun  let  the  farm." 

Samuel  looked,  and  pondered,  but  did  not 
speak  for  some  time.     At  last  he  said — 

"  If  thou  hast  made  up  thy  mind,  there's 
no  speaking  again  it ;  and  thou  must  e'en 
go.  Thou'lt  be  sadly  pottered  wi'  Man- 
chester ways  ;  but  that's  not  my  look  out. 
Why,  thou'lt  have  to  buy  potatoes,  a  thing 
thou  hast  never  done  afore  in  all  thy  born 
life.  Well !  it's  not  my  look  out.  Its  ro.ther 
for  me  than  again  me.  Our  Jenny  is  going 
to  be  married  to  Tom  Higginbotham,  and 
he  was  speaking  of  wanting  a  bit  of  land 
to  begin  upon.  His  father  will  be  dying 
sometime,  I  reckon,  and  then  he'll  step  into 
the  Croft  Farm.     But  meanwhile — " 

"  Then  thou'lt  let  the  farm,"  said  she,  still 
as  eagerly  as  ever. 

"  Aye,  aye,  he'll  take  it  fast  enough,  I've 
a  notion.  But  I'll  not  drive  a  bargain  with 
thee  just  now  ;  it  would  not  be  right  ;  we'll 
wait  a  bit." 

"  No  ;  I  cannot  wait,  settle  it  out  at  once." 

"  Well,  well  ;  I'll  speak  to  Will  about  it. 
I  see  him  out  yonder,  I'll  step  to  him,  and 
talk  it  over." 

Accordingly  he  went  and  joined  the  two 
lads,  and  without  more  ado,  began  the  sub- 
ject to  them. 

"  Will,  thy  mother  is  fain  to  go  live  in 
Manchester,  and  covets  to  let  the  farm. 
Now,  I'm  willing  to  take  it  for  Tom  Higgin- 
botham ;  but  I  like  to  drive  a  keen  bargain, 
and  there  would  be  no  fun  chaffering  with 
thy  mother  just  now.  Let  thee  and  me 
buckle  to,  my  lad!  and  try  and  cheat  each 
other ;  it  will  warm  us  this  cold  day." 


LIZZIE    LEIGH. 


191 


"Let  the  farm  I"  said  both  the  lads  at  once, 
with  infinite  surprise.  "  Go  live  in  Man- 
chester!" 

When  Samuel  Orme  found  that  the  plan 
had  never  before  been  named  to  either  Will 
or  Tom,  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  he  said,  until  they  had  spoken  to  their 
mother  ;  likely  she  was  "  dazed"  by  her 
husband's  death  ;  he  would  wait  a  day  or 
two,  and  not  name  it  to  any  one  ;  not  to  Tom 
Iligginbotham  himself,  or  maybe  he  would 
set  his  heart  upon  it.  The  lads  had  better 
go  in  and  talk  it  over  with  their  mother. 
He  bade  them  good  day  and  left  them. 

Will  looked  very  gloomy,  but  he  did  not 
speak  till  they  got  near  the  house.  Then 
he  said — 

"  Tom,  go  to  th'  shippon,  and  supper  the 
cows.     I  want  to  speak  to  mother  alone." 

When  he  entered  the  house-place,  she  was 
sitting  before  the  fire,  looking  into  its  em- 
bers. She  did  not  hear  him  come  in  ;  for 
some  time  she  had  lost  her  quick  perception 
of  outward  things. 

"  Mother !  what's  this  about  going  to 
Manchester  ?"  asked  he. 

"  Oh,  lad  !"  said  she,  turning  round,  and 
speaking  in  a  beseeching  tone,  "  I  must  go 
and  seek  our  Lizzie.  I  cannot  rest  here  for 
thinking  on  her.  Many's  the  time  I  have 
left  thy  father  sleeping  in  bed,  and  stole  to 
th'  window,  and  looked  and  looked  my 
heart  out  towards  Manchester,  till  I  thought 
I  must  just  set  out  and  tramp  over  moor  and 
moss  straight  away  till  I  got  there,  and  then 
lift  up  every  down-cast  face  till  I  came  to 
our  Lizzie.  And  often,  when  the  south  wind 
was  blowing  soft  among  the  hollows,  I've 
fancied  (it  could  but  be  fancy,  thou  knowest) 
I  heard  her  crying  upon  me ;  and  I've 
thought  the  voice  came  closer  and  closer, 
till  at  last  it  was  sobbing  out  '  Mother' 
close  to  the  door  ;  and  I've  stolen  down,  and 
undone  the  latch  before  now,  and  looked  out 
into  the  still  black  night,  thinking  to  see  her, 
— and  turned  sick  and  sorrowful  when  I 
heard  no  living  sound  but  the  sough  of  the 
wind  dying  away.  Oh  !  speak  not  to  me  of 
stopping  here,  when  she  may  be  perishing 
for  hunger,  like  the  poor  lad  in  the  parable  I 
And  now  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and  wept 
aloud. 

Will  was  deeply  grieved.  He  had  been 
old  enough  to  be  told  the  family  shame 
when,  more  than  two  years  before,  his  fa- 
ther had  had  his  letter  to  his  daughter  re- 
turned by  her  mistress  in  Manchester,  tell- 
ing him  that  Lizzie  had  left  her  service  some 
time— and  why.  He  had  sympathised  with 
his  father's  stern  anger ;  though  he  had 
thought  him  something  hard,  it  is  true, 
when  he  had  forbidden  his  weeping,  heart- 
broken wife  to  go  and  try  to  find  her  poor 
sinning  child,  and  declared  that  henceforth 
they  would  have  no  daughter ;  that  she 
should  be  as  one  dead,  and  her  name  never 


more  be  named  at  market  or  at  meal  time, 
in  blessing  or  in  prayer.  He  had  held  hia 
peace,  with  compressed  lips  and  contracted 
brow,  when  the  neighbors  had  noticed  to 
him  how  poor  Lizzie's  death  had  aged 
both  his  father  and  his  mother;  and  how 
they  thought  the  bereaved  couple  would 
never  hold  up  their  heads  again.  He  him- 
self had  felt  as  if  that  one  event  had  made 
him  old  before  his  time  ;  and  had  envied  Tom 
the  tears  he  had  shed  over  poor,  pretty, 
innocent,  dead  Lizzie.  He  thought  about 
her  sometimes,  till  he  ground  his  teeth 
together,  and  could  have  struck  her  down 
in  her  shame.  His  mother  had  never  named 
her  to  him  until  now. 

"Mother!"  said  he,  at  last.  "She  may 
be  dead.     Most  likely  she  is." 

"  No,  Will ;  she  is  not  dead,"  said  Mrs. 
Leigh.  "Godwin  not  let  her  die  till  V\i 
seen  her  once  again.  Thou  dost  not  knov» 
how  I've  prayed  and  prayed  just  once  again 
to  see  her  sweet  face,  and  tell  her  I've  fur 
given  her  though  she's  broken  my  heart 
— she  has,  Will."  She  could  not  go  on  fol 
a  minute  or  two  for  the  choking  sobs.  "  Tho\ 
dost  not  know  that,  or  thou  wouldst  not  say 
she  could  be  dead, — for  God  is  very  merci- 
ful, Will ;  He  is, — He  is  much  more  pitiful 
than  man, — I  could  never  ha'  spoken  to  thy 
father  as  I  did  to  Him, — and  yet  thy  father 
forgave  her  at  last.  The  last  words  he  said 
were  that  he  forgave  her.  Thou'lt  not  be 
harder  than  thy  father, Will?  Do  not  try  and 
hinder  me  going  to  seek  her,  for  it's  no  use." 

Will  sat  very  still  for  a  long  while  before 
he  spoke.  At  last  he  said,  "  I'll  not  hinder 
you.  I  think  she's  dead,  but  that's  no 
matter." 

"  She  is  not  dead,"  said  his  mother,  with 
low  earnestness.  Will  took  no  notice  of  the 
interruption. 

"We  will  all  go  to  Manchester  for  a 
twelvemonth,  and  let  the  farm  to  Tom  Ilig- 
ginbotham. I'll  get  blacksniitii's  wurk  ;  and 
Tom  can  have  good  schooling  for  awhile, 
which  he's  always  craving  for.  At  the  end 
of  the  year  you'll  come  back,  mother,  and 
give  over  fretting  for  Lizzie,  and  think  with 
me  that  she  is  dead, — and  to  my  mind,  that 
would  be  more  comfort  than  to  think  of  her 
living  ;"  he  dropped  his  voice  as  he  spoke 
these  last  words.  She  shook  her  head,  but 
made  no  answer.     He  asked  again — 

"  Will  you,  mother,  agree  to  this?'' 

"I'll  agree  to  it  a-this-ns,"  said  she.  "  If 
I  hear  and  see  nought  of  her  for  a  twelve- 
month, me  being  in  Manchester  looking  out, 
I'll  just  ha'  broken  my  heart  fairly  before 
the  year's  ended,  and  then  I  shall  knew 
neither  love  nor  sorrow  for  her  any  more, 
when  I'm  at  rest  in  the  grave — I'll  agree  to 
that.  Will." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  must  be  so.  I  shall 
not  tell  Tom,  mother,  why  we're  flitting  tv 
Manchester.     Best  spare  him." 


1912 


DICKENS'   NEW    STORIES. 


"  As  thou  -wilt,"  said  she,  sadly,  "  so  that 
we  go,  that's  all."' 

Before  the  wild  daffodils  were  in  flower 
in  the  sheltered  copses  round  Upclose  Farm, 
the  Lei<;hs  were  settled  in  their  Manchester 
home  ;  if  they  could  ever  grow  to  consider 
that  place  as  a  home,  where  there  was  no 
garden,  or  outbuilding,  no  fresh  breezy  out- 
let, no  far-stretching  view,  over  moor  and 
hollow, — no  dumb  animals  to  be  tended, 
and,  what  more  than  all  they  missed,  no 
old  haunting  memories,  even  though  those 
remembrances  told  of  sorrow,  and  the  dead 
and  gone. 

Mrs.  Leigh  heeded  the  loss  of  all  these 
things  less  than  her  sons.  She  had  more 
spirit  in  her  countenance  than  she  ho.d  had  for 
months,  because  now  she  had  hope  ;  of  a  sad 
enough  kind,  to  be  sure,  but  still  it  was  hope. 
She  performed  all  her  household  duties, 
strange  and  complicated  as  they  were,  and  be- 
wildered as  she  was  with  all  the  town-neces- 
sities of  her  new  manner  of  life  ;  but  when 
her  house  was  "  sided,"  and  the  boys  came 
home  from  their  work,  in  the  evening,  she 
would  put  on  her  things  and  steal  out,  un- 
noticed, as  she  thought,  but  not  without 
many  a  heavy  sigh  from  Will,  after  she  had 
closed  the  house-door  and  departed.  It  was 
often  past  midnight  before  she  came  back, 
pale  and  weary,  with  almost  a  guilty  look 
upon  her  face  ;  but  that  face  so  full  of  dis- 
appointment and  hope-deferred,  that  Will 
had  never  the  heart  to  say  what  he  thought 
of  the  folly  and  hopelessness  of  the  search. 
Night  after  night  it  was  renewed,  till  days 
grew  to  weeks,  and  weeks  to  months.  All 
this  time  Will  did  his  duty  towards  her  as 
well  as  he  could,  without  having  sympathy 
with  her.  He  staid  at  home  in  the  even- 
ings for  Tom's  sake,  and  often  wished  he 
had  Tom's  pleasure  in  reading,  for  the 
time  hung  heavy  on  his  hands,  as  he  sat  up 
for  his  mother. 

I  need  not  tell  you  how  the  mother  spent 
the  weary  hours.  And  yet  I  will  tell  you 
something.  She  used  to  wander  out,  at 
first  as  if  without  a  purpose,  till  she  rallied 
her  thoughts,  and  brought  all  her  energies 
to  bear  on  the  one  point ;  then  she  went 
with  earnest  patience  along  the  least  known 
ways  to  some  new  part  of  the  town,  looking 
wistfully  with  dumb  entreaty  into  people's 
faces  ;  sometimes  catching  a  glimpse  of  a 
figure  Avhich  had  a  kind  of  momentary  like- 
ness to  her  child's,  and  following  that  figure 
with  never  wearying  perseverance  till  some 
light  from  shop  or  lamp  showed  the  cold 
strange  face  which  was  not  her  daughter's. 
Once  or  twice  a  kind-hearted  passer-by, 
struck  by  her  look  of  yearning  woe,  turned 
back  and  offered  help,  or  asked  her  what 
she  wanted.  When  so  spoken  to,  she  an- 
swered only,  '  You  don't  know  a  poor  girl 
they  call  Lizzie  Leigh,  do  you  ?'  and  when 
they  denied  all  knowledge,  she  shook  her 


head,  and  went  on  again.  I  think  they  be- 
lieved her  to  be  crazy.  But  she  never  spoke 
first  to  any  one.  She  sometimes  took  a  few 
minutes'  rest  on  the  doorsteps,  and  some- 
times (very  seldom)  covered  her  face  and 
cried  ;  but  she  could  not  ag"ord  to  lose  time 
and  chances  in  this  way ;  while  her  eyes 
were  blinded  with  tears,  the  lost  one  might 
pass  by  unseen. 

One  evening,  in  the  rich  time  of  shortening 
autumn-days.  Will  saw  an  old  man,  who 
without  being  absolutely  drunk,  could  not 
guide  himself  rightly  along  the  foot-path, 
and  was  mocked  for  his  unsteadiness  of  gait 
by  the  idle  boys  of  the  neighborhood.  For 
his  father's  sake  Will  regarded  old  age  with 
tenderness,  even  when  most  degraded  and 
removed  from  the  stern  virtues  which  digni- 
fied that  father ;  so  he  took  the  old  man 
home,  and  seemed  to  believe  his  often  re- 
peated assertions  that  he  drank  nothing  but 
water.  The  stranger  tried  to  stiffen  himself 
up  into  steadiness  as  he  drew  nearer  home, 
as  if  there  were  some  one  there,  for  whose 
respect  he  cared  even  in  his  half-intoxicated 
state,  or  whose  feelings  he  feared  to  grieve. 
Ilis  home  was  exquisitely  clean  and  neat 
even  in  outside  appearance  ;  threshold,  win- 
dow, and  window-sill,  were  outward  signs 
of  some  spirit  of  purity  within.  Will  was 
rewarded  for  his  attention  by  a  bright  glance 
of  thanks,  succeeded  by  a  blush  of  shame, 
from  a  young  woman  of  twenty  or  there- 
abouts. She  did  not  speak,  or  second  her 
father's  hospitable  invitations  to  him  to  be 
seated.  She  seemed  unwilling  that  a  stran- 
ger should  witness  her  father's  attempts  at 
stately  sobriety,  and  Will  could  not  bear  to 
stay  and  see  her  distress.  But  when  the  old 
man,  with  many  a  flabby  shake  of  the  hand, 
kept  asking  him  to  come  again  some  other 
evening  and  see  them.  Will  sought  her  down- 
cast eyes,  and,  though  he  could  not  read 
their  veiled  meaning,  he  answered  timidly, 
"  If  its  agreeable  to  everybody,  I'll  come — 
and  thank  ye."  But  there  was  no  answer 
from  the  girl  to  whom  this  speech  was  in 
reality  addressed  ;  and  Will  left  the  house 
liking  her  all  the  better  for  never  speaking. 

He  thought  about  her  a  great  deal  for  the 
next  day  or  two;  he  scolded  himself  for 
being  so  foolish  as  to  think  of  her,  and  then 
fell  to  with  fresh  vigor,  and  thought  of  her 
more  than  ever.  He  tried  to  depreciate 
her  ;  he  told  himself  she  was  not  pretty,  and 
then  made  indignant  answer  that  he  liked 
her  looks  much  better  than  any  beauty  of 
them  all.  He  wished  he  was  not  so  country 
looking,  so  red-faced,  so  broad-shouldered; 
while  she  was  like  a  lady,  with  her  smooth 
colorless  complexion,  her  bright  dark  hair 
and  her  spotless  dress.  Pretty,  or  not  pretty, 
she  drew  his  footsteps  towards  her  ;  he  could 
not  resist  the  impulse  that  made  him  wish 
to  see  her  once  more,  and  find  out  some  fault 
which  should  unloose   his  heart  from  her 


LIZZIE   LEIGH. 


193 


unconscious  koepinj;.  But  there  she  w.as, 
pure  and  maidenly  as  before.  lie  sat  and 
looked,  answering:;  her  father  at  cross  pur- 
poses, while  she  drew  more  and  more  into 
the  shadow  of  the  chimney-corner  out  of 
sight.  Then  the  spirit  that  possessed  him 
(it  was  not  he  himself,  sure,  that  did  so  im- 
pudent a  thing  !)  made  hiui  get  up  and  carry 
the  candle  to  a  different  place,  under  the 
pretence  of  giving  her  mure  light  at  her 
sewing,  but  in  reality,  to  be  able  to  see  her 
better  ;  she  could  not  stand  this  much  longer, 
but  jumped  ud,  and  said  she  must  put  her 
little  niece  to  bed  ;  and  surely,  there  never 
was,  before  or  since,  so  troublesome  a  child 
of  two  years  old  ;  for,  though  AVill  staid  an 
hour  and  a  half  longer,  she  never  came 
down  again.  He  won  the  father's  heart, 
though,  by  his  capacity  as  a  listener,  for 
some  people  are  not  at  all  particular,  and, 
60  that  they  themselves  may  talk  on  undis- 
turbed, are  not  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect 
attention  to  what  they  say. 

Will  did  gather  this  much,  however,  from 
the  old  man's  ti\lk.  lie  had  once  been  quite 
in  a  gt-nteel  line  of  business,  but  had  failed 
for  more  money  than  any  jrreengrocer  he 
had  heard  of;  at  least,  any  who  did  not  mix 
up  fish  and  game  with  greengrocery  proper. 
This  grand  failure  seemed  to  have  been  the 
event  of  his  life,  and  one  on  which  he  dwelt 
with  a  strange  kind  of  pride.  It  appeared 
as  if  at  present  he 'rested  from  his  past  ex- 
ertions (in  the  bankrupt  line),  and  depended 
on  his  daughter,  who  kept  a  small  school 
for  very  young  children.  But  all  these  par- 
ticulars Will  only  remembered  and  under- 
stood, when  he  had  left  the  house  ;  at  the 
time  he  heard  them,  he  was  thinking  of 
Susan.  After  he  had  made  good  his  footing 
at  Mr.  Palmer's  he  was  not  long,  you  ma}' 
be  sure,  without  finding  some  reason  for  re- 
turning again  and  again.  He  listened  to 
her  father,  he  talked  to  the  little  niece,  but 
he  looked  at  Susan,  both  while  he  listened 
and  while  he  talked.  Iler  father  kept  on 
insisting  on  his  former  gentility,  the  details 
of  which  would  have  appeared  very  ques- 
tionable to  Will's  mind,  if  the  sweet,  delicate, 
modest  Susan  had  not  thrown  an  inexplica- 
ble air  of  refinement  over  all  she  came  near. 
She  never  spoke  mucji ;  she  was  generally 
diligently  at  work ;  but  when  she  moved  it 
was  80  noiselessly,  and  when  she  did  speak, 
it  was  in  so  low  and  soft  a  voice,  that  silence, 
speech,  motion  and  stillness,  alike  seemed 
to  remove  her  high  above  Will's  reach  into 
some  saintly  and  inaccessible  air  of  glory — 
high  above  his  reach,  even  as  she  knew  him  ! 
And,  if  she  were  made  acquainted  with  the 
dark  secret  behind,  of  his  sister's  shame, 
which  was  kept  ever  present  to  his  mind  by 
his  mother's  nightly  search  among  the  out- 
cast and  forsaken,  would  not  Susan  shrink 
away  from  him  with  loathing,  as  if  he  were 
tainted    by   the   involuntary   relationship? 


This  was  his  dread  ;  and  thereupon  followed 
a  resolution  that  lie  would  withdraw  from 
her  sweet  company  before  it  was  to  late. 
So  he  resisted  internal  temptation,  and  staid 
at  home,  and  suffered  and  sii^h.'d.  II^>  be- 
came angry  with  his  mother  for  iier  untiring 
patience  in  seeking  for  one  who,  he  could 
not  help  hoping,  was  dead  rather  than  alive. 
He  spoke  sharply  to  her,  and  received  (.nly 
such  sad  deprecatory  answers  as  made  him 
reproach  himself,  and  still  more  lose  sight 
of  peace  of  mind.  This  struggle  could  not 
last  long  without  affecting  his  health  ;  and 
Tom,  his  sole  companion  through  the  long 
evenings,  noticed  his  increasing  languor,  hi;i 
restless  irritability,  with  perple.ic(;d  anxietv, 
and  at  last  resolved  to  call  his  motiier's  at- 
tention to  his  brother's  haggard,  care-worn 
looks.  She  listened  with  a  startleil  recoli-x- 
tion  of  AVill's  claims  upon  her  h)ve.  She 
noticed  his  decreasing  appetite,  and  half- 
checked  sighs. 

"  Will,  lad  I  what's  come  o'er  thee?"  said 
she  to  him,  as  he  sat  listlessly  gazing  into 
the  fire. 

"  There's  nought  the  matter  with  me," 
said  he,  as  if  annoyed  at  her  remark. 

'•  Xay,  lad,  but  there  is."  lie  did  not 
speak  again  to  contradict  her ;  indeed  she 
did  not  know  if  he  had  heard  her,  so  un- 
moved did  he  look. 

"AVould'st  like  to  go  liack  to  Upcluse 
Farm?"  asked  she,  soi-rowi"ully. 

"  It's  just  blackberr3ing  time."  said  Tom. 

Will  shook  his  head.  She  looked  at  him 
awhile,  as  if  trying  to  read  that  expression 
of  despondency  and  trace  it  back  to  its 
source. 

"  Will  and  Tom  could  go,"  said  she  ;  "  I 
must  stay  here  till  I've  found  her,  thou 
know'st,"  continued  she,  dropping  her  voice. 

lie  turned  quickly  round,  and  with  the 
authority  he  at  all  times  exercised  over  Tom, 
bade  him  begone  to  bed. 

When  Tom  had  left  the  room,  he  prepare4t 
to  speak. 


CHAPTER   II. 

"Mother,"  then  said  Will,  "'why  will 
you  keep  on  thinking  she's  alive?  If  she 
were  but  deatl,  we  need  never  name  her 
name  agriin.  We've  never  heard  nought  on 
her  since  father  wrote  her  that  letter  ;  we 
never  knew  whether  she  got  it  or  not.  She'd 
left  her  place  before  then.  Many  a  one  dies 
is " 

"Oh  my  lad!  dunnot  speak  so  to  me,  or  my 
heart  will  break  outright,"  said  his  mother, 
witii  a  sort  of  cry.  Then  she  calmed  herself, 
for  she  ^-earned  to  persuade  him  to  her  own 
belief.  "  Thou  never  asked,  and  thou'rt  too 
like  thy  father  for  me  to  tell  without  asking 
— but  It  were  all  to  be  near  Lizzie's  old  place 


194 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES. 


that  I  settled  down  on  this  side  o'  Man- 
chester ;  and  the  very  day  after  we  came, 
I  went  to  her  old  missus,  and  as^ked  to  speak 
a  word  wi'  her.  I  had  a  strons;  mind  to 
cast  it  up  to  her,  that  she  should  ha'  sent  my 
poor  lass  away  without  tellinj^  on  it  to  us 
first:  but  she  were  in  black,  and  looked  so 
sad  I  could  na'  find  in  my  heart  to  threep  it 
up.  But  I  did  ask  her  a  bit  about  our  Liz- 
zie. The  master  would  have  her  turned 
away  at  a  day's  warning,  (he's  gone  to 
t'other  place  ;  I  hope  he'll  meet  wi'  more 
mercy  there  than  he  showed  our  Lizzie, — I 
do, — )  and  when  the  missus  asked  her  should 
she  write  to  us,  she  says  Lizzie  shook  her 
head  ;  and  when  she  speered  at  her  again, 
the  poor  lass  went  down  on  her  knees,  and 
begged  her  not,  for  she  said  it  would  break 
my  heart  (as  it  has  done,  AVill — God  knows 
it  has),"  and  tlie  poor  mother,  choking  with 
her  struggle  to  keep  down  her  hard  over- 
nla^tering  grief,  "  and  her  father  would 
curse  her — Oh,  God,  teach  me  to  be  patient." 
She  could  not  spetik  for  a  few  minutes, — 
"and  the  lass  threatened,  and  said  she'd  go 
drown  herself  in  the  canal,  if  the  missus 
wrote  home — and  so — 

"  Well !  I'd  got  a  trace  of  my  child, — the 
missus  thought  she'd  gone  to  the  workhouse 
to  be  nursed  ;  and  there  I  went — and  there, 
sure  enough,  she  had  been, — and  they'd 
turned  her  out  as  soon  as  she  was  strong,  and 
told  her  she  were  young  enough  to  work, — 
but  whatten  kind  o'  work  would  be  open  to 
her,  lad,  and  her  baby  to  keep?" 

Will  listened  to  his  mother's  tale  with 
deep  sympathy,  not  unmixed  with  the  old 
bitter  shame.  But  the  opening  of  her  heart 
had  unlocked  his,  and  after  a  while  he 
spoke. 

"  Mother!  I  think  I'd  e'en  better  go  home. 
Tom  can  stay  wi'  thee.  I  know  I  should 
stay  too,  but  I  cannot  stay  in  peace  so  near 
— her — without  craving  to  see  her — Susan 
Palmer  I  mean." 

"  Has  the  old  Mr.  Palmer  thou  telled  me 
on  a  daughter?"  asked  Mrs.  Leigh. 

"  Aye,  he  has.  And  I  love  her  above  a 
bit.  And  it's  because  I  love  her  I  want  to 
leave  Manchester.     That's  all." 

Mrs.  Leigh  tried  to  understand  this  speech 
for  some  time,  but  found  it  difficult  of  inter- 
pretation. 

"  Why  should'st  thou  not  tell  her  thou 
lov'st  her?  Thou'rt  a  likely  lad,  and  sure 
o'  work.  Thou'lt  have  Upclose  at  my  death  ; 
and  as  for  that  I  could  let  thee  have  it  now, 
and  keep  myself  by  doing  a  bit  of  charring. 
It  seems  to  me  a  very  backward  sort  o'  way 
of  winning  her  to  think  of  leaving  Man- 
chester." 

"  Oh,  mother,  she's  so  gentle  and  so  good, 
— she's  downright  holy.  She's  never  known 
a  touch  of  sin  ;  and  can  I  ask  her  to  marry 
me,  knowing  what  we  do  about  Lizzie,  and 
fearing  worse!    I  doubt  if  one  like  her  could 


ever  care  for  me ;  but  if  she  knew  about  my 
sister,  it  would  put  a  gulf  between  us,  and 
she'd  shudder  up  at  the  thought  of  crossing 
it.  You  don't  know  how  good  she  is, 
mother  !" 

"  Will,  Will !  if  she's  so  good  as  thou 
say'st,  she'll  have  pity  on  such  as  my  Lizzie. 
If  she  has  no  pity  for  such,  she's  a  cruel 
Pharisee,  and  thou'rt  best  without  her." 

But  he  only  shook  his  head,  and  sighed  ; 
and  for  the  time  the  conversation  dropped. 

But  a  new  idea  sprang  up  in  Mrs.  Leigh's 
head.  She  thought  that  she  would  go  and 
see  Susan  Palmer,  and  speak  up  for  Will, 
and  tell  her  the  truth  about  Lizzie  ;  and  ac- 
cording to  her  pity  for  the  poor  sinner, 
would  she  be  worthy  or  unworthy  of  him. 
She  resolved  to  go  the  very  next  afternoon, 
but  without  telling  any  one  of  her  plan. 
Accordingly  she  looked  out  the  Sunday 
clothes  she  had  never  before  had  the  heart 
to  unpack  since  she  came  to  ^Manchester, 
but  which  she  now  desired  to  appear  in,  in 
order  to  do  credit  to  Will.  She  put  on  her 
old-fashioned  black  mode  bonnet,  trimmed 
with  real  lace  ;  her  scarlet  cloth  cloak, 
whi  -h  she  had  had  ever  since  she  was  mar- 
ried ;  and  always  spotlessly  clean,  she  set 
forth  on  her  unauthorized  embassy.  She 
knew  the  Palmers  lived  in  Crown  Street, 
though  where  she  liad  heard  it  she  could  nut 
tell ;  and  modestly  asking  her  way,  she 
arrived  in  the  street  about  a  quarter  to  four 
o'clock.  She  stopped  to  inquire  the  exact 
number,  and  the  woman  whom  she  ad- 
dressed told  her  that  Susan  Palmer's  selionl 
would  not  be  loosed  till  four,  and  asked 
her  to  stop  in  and  wait  until  then  at  her 
house. 

"  For,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  them  that 
wants  Susan  Palmer  wants  a  kind  friend  of 
ours;  so  we,  in  a  manner,  call  cousins.  Sit 
down,  missus,  sit  down.  I'll  wipe  the  chair, 
so  that  it  shanna  dirty  your  cloak.  My 
mother  used  to  wear  them  bright  cloaks, 
and  they're  right  gradely  things  again  a 
green  field. 

"  Han  ye  known  Susan  Palmer  long  ?" 
asked  ]Mrs.  Leigh,  pleased  with  the  admira- 
tion of  her  cloak. 

"Ever  since  they  comed  to  live  in  our 
street.     Our  Sally  goes  to  her  school." 

"  Whatten  sort  of  a  lass  is  she,  for  I  ha' 
never  seen  her  ?" 

"  Well, — as  for  looks,  I  cannot  say.  It's 
so  long  since  I  first  knowed  her,  that  I've 
clean  forgotten  what  I  thought  of  her  then. 
]My  master  says  he  never  saw  such  a  smile 
for  gladdening  the  heart.  But  may  be  it's 
not  looks  you're  asking  about.  The  best 
thing  I  can  say  of  her  looks  is,  that  she's 
just  one  a  stranger  would  stop  in  the  street 
to  ask  help  from  if  he  needed  it.  All  the 
little  childer  creeps  as  close  as  they  can  to 
her  ;  she'll  have  as  many  as  three  or  four 
hanging  to  her  apron  all  at  once." 


LIZZIE   LEIGH. 


195 


"  Is  sho  cocket  at  all  ?" 

"  Cocket,  bless  j'ou !  you  never  saw  a 
creature  less  set  up  in  all  your  life.  Iler 
father's  cooket  enouji;h.  No !  she's  not  cocket 
any  way.  You've  not  heard  niui!h  of  Susan 
Palmer,  I  reckon,  if  you  think  she's  cocket. 
She's  just  one  to  come  quietly  in,  and  do 
the  very  thing  most  wanted  ;  little  things, 
inaylie,  that  any  one  could  do,  but  tliat  few 
would  think  on,  for  another.  She'll  bring  her 
thimble  wi'  her,  and  mend  up  alter  the 
chillier  o'  nights, — and  she  writes  all  Betty 
Harker's  letters  to  her  grandchild  out  at 
s.'rvice, — and  she's  in  nobody's  way,  and 
that's  a  great  matter,  I  take  it.  Here's  the 
childer  running  past!  School  is  loosed. 
You'll  find  her  now,  missus,  ready  to  hear 
and  ti)  help.  But  we  none  on  us  frab  her 
by  going  near  her  in  school-time." 

Poor  iMrs.  Leigh's  heart  began  to  beat, 
and  she  could  almost  have  turned  round  and 
gone  home  again.  Her  country  breeding 
had  made  her  shy  of  strangers,  and  this 
Susan  Palmer  appeared  to  her  like  a  real 
born  lady  by  all  accounts.  So  she  knocked 
with  a  timid  feeling  at  the  indicated  door, 
and  when  it  was  opened,  dropped  a  simple 
curtsey  without  speaking.  Susan  had  her 
little  niece  in  her  arms,  curled  up  with  fond 
endearment  against  her  breast,  but  she  put 
her  gently  down  to  the  ground,  and  instantly 
placed  a  chair  in  the  best  corner  of  the  room 
for  Mrs.  Leigh,  when  she  told  her  who  she 
was.  "  It's  not  Will  as  has  asked  me  to 
come,"  said  the  mother,  apologetically;  "  I'd 
a  wish  just  to  speak  to  you  myself!" 

Susan  colored  up  to  her  temples,  and 
stooped  to  pick  up  the  little  toddling  girl. 
In  a  minute  or  two  Mrs.  Leigh  began  again. 

"Will  thinks  you  would  na  respect  us  if 
you  knew  all  ;  but  I  think  you  could  na  help 
feeling  for  us  in  the  sorrow  God  has  put 
upon  us  ;  so  I  just  put  on  my  bonnet,  and 
came  off  unknownst  to  the  lads.  Every  one 
says  you're  very  good,  and  that  the  Lord 
has  keeped  you  from  falling  from  his  ways  ; 
but  maybe  you've  never  yet  been  tried  and 
tempted  as  some  is.  I'm  perhaps  speaking 
too  plain,  but  my  heart's  welly  broken,  and 
I  can't  be  choice  in  my  words  as  them  who 
are  happy  can.  Well  now !  I'll  tell  you  the 
truth.  Will  dreads  you  to  hear  it,  but  I'll 
just  tell  it  you.  You  mun  know," — but 
here  the  poor  woman's  words  failed  her,  and 
she  could  do  nothing  but  sit  rocking  herself 
backwards  and  forwards,  with  sad  eyes, 
straight-gazing  into  Susan's  face,  as  if  they 
tried  to  tell  the  tale  of  agony  which  the 
quivering  lips  refused  to  utter.  Those 
wretched  stony  eyes  forced  the  tears  down 
Susan's  cheeks,  and,  as  if  this  sympatiiy 
gave  the  mother  strength,  she  went  on  in  a 
low  voice,  "I  had  a  daughter  once,  my 
heart's  darling.  Iler  father  thought  I  made 
too  much  on  her,  and  that  she'd  grow 
marred    staying  at   home;    so    he  said  she 


mun  go  among  strangers,  and  learn  to  rough 
it.  She  were  young,  and  liked  the  thought 
of  seeing  a  bit  of  the  world  ;  and  her  fiither 
heard  on  a  place  in  Manohester.  Well!  I'll 
in)t  weary  you.  That  poor  girl  were  led 
astray ;  and  first  thing  we  heard  on  it,  was 
when  a  letter  of  her  father's  was  sent  back 
by  her  missus,  saying,  she'd  left  her  place, 
or,  to  speak  right,  the  master  had  turned 
her  into  the  street  soon  as  he  had  heard  of 
her  condition — and  she  not  seventeen  !" 

She  now  cried  alouu ;  and  Susan  wept 
too.  The  little  child  looked  up  into  their 
faces,  and,  catching  their  sorrow,  liegan  to 
whimper  and  wail.  Susan  took  it  soltly  up, 
and  hiding  her  face  in  its  little  neck,  tried 
to  restrain  her  tears,  and  think  of  comfort 
for  the  mother.     At  last  she  said : — 

"Where  is  she  now?" 

"  Lass  !  I  dunnot  know,"  said  Mrs.  Leigh, 
checking  her  sobs  to  communicate  this  ad- 
dition to  her  distress.  "Mrs.  Lomax  telled 
me  she  went" 

"Mrs.  Lomax — what  Mrs.  Lomax?" 

"  Her  as  lives  in  Bral)azon-street.  She 
telled  me  my  poor  wench  went  to  the  work- 
house fra  there.  I'll  not  speak  again  the 
dead ;  but  if  her  father  would  but  ha'  letten 
me, — but  he  were  one  who  had  no  notion — 
no,  I'll  not  say  that ;  best  say  nought.  He 
forgave  her  on  his  death-bed.  I  dare  say  I 
did  na  go  th'  right  way  to  work." 

"  Will  you  hold  the  child  for  me  one  in- 
stant?" said  Susan. 

"  Ay,  if  it  will  come  to  me.  Childer  used 
to  be  fond  on  mo  till  I  got  the  sad  look  on 
my  face  that  scares  them,  1  think." 

But  the  little  girl  clung  to  Susan  ;  so  she 
carried  it  up  stairs  with  her.  Mrs.  Leigh 
sat  by  herself — how  long  she  did  not  know. 

Susan  came  down  with  a  bundle  of  far- 
worn  baby-clothos. 

"You  must  listen  to  me  a  bit,  and  not 
think  too  much  about  what  I'm  going  to  tell 
you.  Nanny  is  not  ni}'  niece,  nor  any  kin 
to  me  that  I  know  of  I  used  to  go  out 
working  by  the  day.  One  night,  as  I  came 
home,  I  thought  some  woman  was  fidlowing 
me;  I  turned  to  look.  The  woman,  before 
I  could  see  her  face  (for  she  turned  it  to  one 
side),  offered  me  something.  I  held  out  my 
arms  by  instinct;  she  dropped  a  bundle  into 
them  with  a  bursting  sob  that  went  straight 
to  my  heart.  It  was  a  baby.  1  looked 
round  again ;  but  the  woman  was  gone. 
She  had  run  away  as  quick  as  lightning. 
There  was  a  little  packet  of  clothes — very 
few — and  as  if  they  were  made  out  of  its 
mother's  gowns,  for  they  were  largo  patterns 
to  buy  for  a  baby.  1  was  always  fond  of 
babies;  and  I  had  not  my  wits  about  me, 
fithor  says  ;  for  it  was  very  C(dd,  and  when 
I'd  seen  as  well  as  I  c(uild  (for  it  was  past 
ten)  that  there  was  no  one  in  the  street,  I 
brought  it  in  and  warmed  it.  Father  was 
very  angry  when  he  came,  and  said  he'd 


196 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


take  it  to  the  workhouse  the  next  morninjr, 
and  flyted  me  sadly  about  it.  But  when 
morning  came  I  could  not  bear  to  part  with 
it ;  it  had  slept  in  my  arms  all  night ;  and 
I've  heard  what  workhouse  bringing  up  is. 
So  I  told  father  I'd  give  up  going  out  work- 
ing, and  stay  at  home  and  keop  school,  if  I 
might  only  keep  the  baby  ;  and  after  awhile, 
he  said  if  I  earned  enough  for  him  to  have 
hia  comforts,  he'd  let  mo;  but  he's  never 
taken  to  lier.  Now,  don't  tremble  so — I've 
but  a  little  more  to  tell — and  maybe  I'm 
wrong  in  telling  it;  but  I  used  to  work  next 
door  to  Mrs.  Lomax's,  in  Brabazon-street, 
and  the  servants  were  all  thick  together; 
and  I  heard  about  Bessy  (they  called  her) 
being  sent  away.  I  don't  know  that  ever  I 
saw  her  ;  but  the  time  would  be  about  fitting 
to  this  child's  age,  and  I've  sometimes  fan- 
cied it  was  her's.  And  now,  will  you  look 
at  the  little  clothes  that  came  with  her — 
bless  her  !" 

But  Mrs.  Leigh  had  fainted.  The  strange 
joy  and  shame,  and  gushing  love  for  the 
little  child  had  overpowered  her;  it  was 
some  time  before  Susan  could  bring  her 
round.  Then  she  was  all  trembling,  sick 
with  impatience  to  look  at  the  little  frocks. 
Among  them  was  a  slip  of  paper  which  Su- 
san had  forgotten  to  name,  that  had  been 
pinned  to  the  bundle.  On  it  was  scrawled 
in  a  round  stiif  hand, 

"  Call  her  Anne.  She  does  not  cry  much, 
and  takes  a  deal  of  notice.  God  bless  you 
and  forgive  me." 

The  writing  was  no  clue  at  all ;  the  name 
"  Anne,"  common  though  it  was,  seemed 
something  to  build  upon.  But  Mrs.  Leigh 
recognized  one  of  the  frocks  instantly,  as 
being  made  out  of  part  of  a  gown  that  she 
and  her  daughter  had  bought  together  in 
Kochdale. 

She  stood  up,  and  stretched  out  her  hands 
in  the  attitude  of  blessing  over  Susan's  bent 
head. 

"God  bless  you,  and  show  you  His  mercy 
in  your  need,  as  you  have  shown  it  to  this 
little  child." 

She  took  the  little  creature  in  her  arms, 
and  smoothed  away  her  sad  looks  into  a 
smile,  and  kissed  it  fondly,  saying  over  and 
over  again,  "Nanny,  Nanny,  my  little  Nan- 
ny." At  last  the  child  was  soothed,  and 
looked  in  her  face  and  smiled  back  again. 

"  It  has  her  eyes,"  said  she  to  Susan. 

"  I  never  saw  her  to  the  best  of  my  know- 
ledge. I  think  it  must  be  her's  by  the  frock. 
But  where  can  she  be  ?" 

"  God  knows,"  said  Mrs.  Leigh  ;  "  I  dare 
not  think  she's  dead.     I'm  sure  she  isn't." 

"  No !  she's  not  dead.  Every  now  and 
then  a  little  packet  is  thrust  in  under  our 
door,  with  may-be  two  half-crowns  in  it ; 
once  it  was  half-a-sovereign.  Altogether 
I've  got  seven-and-thirty  shillings  wrapped 
up  for  Nanny.     I  never  touch  it,  but  I've 


often  thought  the  poor  mother  feels  near  to 
God  when  she  brings  this  money.  Father 
wantod  to  set  the  policeman  to  watch,  but  I 
said  No,  for  I  was  afraid  if  she  was  watched 
she  might  not  come,  and  it  seemed  such  a 
holy  thing  to  be  checking  her  in,  I  could 
not  find  in  my  heart  to  do  it," 

"  Oh,  if  we  could  but  find  her  !  I'd  take 
her  in  my  arms,  and  we'd  just  lie  down  and 
die  together." 

"  Nay,  don't  speak  so  1"  said  Susan  gently, 
"  for  all  that's  come  and  gone,  she  may 
turn  right  at  last.  Mary  Magdalen  did,  you 
know." 

"  Eh  !  but  I  were  nearer  right  about  thee 
than  Will.  He  thought  you  would  never 
look  on  hirn  again  if  you  knew  about  Lizzie. 
But  thou'rt  not  a  Pharisee." 

"  I'm  sorry  he  thought  I  could  be  so 
hard,"  said  Susan  in  a  low  voice,  and  color- 
ing up.  Then  Mrs.  Leigh  was  alarmed,  and 
in  her  motherly  anxiety,  she  began  to  fear 
lest  she  had  injured  Will  in  Susan's  estima- 
tion. 

"  You  see  Will  thinks  so  much  of  you — 
gold  would  not  be  good  enough  for  you  to 
walk  on,  in  his  eye.  He  said  you'd  never 
look  at  him  as  he  was,  let  alone  his  being 
brother  to  my  poor  wench.  He  loves  you 
so,  it  makes  him  think  meanly  on  every- 
thing belonging  to  himself,  as  not  fit  to  come 
near  ye, — but  he's  a  good  lad,  and  a  good 
son — thou'lt  be  a  happy  woman  if  thou'lt 
have  him, — so  don't  let  my  words  go  against 
him  ;  dt)n't." 

But  Susan  hung  her  head  and  made  no 
answer.  She  had  not  known  until  now, 
that  Will  thought  so  earnestly  and  seriously 
about  her  ;  and  even  now  she  felt  afraid  that 
Mrs.  Leigh's  words  promised  her  too  much 
happiness,  and  that  they  could  not  be  true. 
At  any  rate  the  instinct  of  modesty  made 
her  shrink  from  saying  anything  which 
might  seem  like  a  confession  of  her  own 
feelings  to  a  third  person.  Accordingly  she 
turned  the  conversation  on  the  child. 

"  I'm  sure  he  could  not  help  loving  Nan- 
ny," said  she.  "  There  never  was  such  a 
good  little  darling ;  don't  you  think  she'd 
win  his  heart  if  he  knew  she  was  his  niece, 
and  perhaps  bring  him  to  think  kindly  on 
his  sister?" 

"  I  dunnot  know,"  said  Mrs.  Leigh  shak- 
ing her  head.     "  He  has  a  turn  in  his  eye 

like  his  father,  that  makes  me .     He's 

right  down  good  though.  But  you  see  I've 
never  been  a  good  one  at  managing  folks  ; 
one  sevei'e  look  turns  me  sick,  and  then  I 
say  just  the  wrong  thing,  I'm  so  fluttered. 
Now  I  should  like  nothing  better  than  to 
take  Nancy  home  with  me,  but  Tom  knows 
nothing  but  that  his  sister  is  dead,  and  I've 
not  the  knack  of  speaking  rightly  to  Will. 
I  dare  not  do  it,  and  that's  the  truth.  But 
you  mun  not  think  badly  of  Will.  He's  so 
good  hissel,  that  he  can't  understand  how 


LIZZIE    LEIGH. 


197 


an}'  one  can  do  wrong ;  and,  above  all,  I'm 
giire  he  Icves  you  dearly." 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  part  with  Nanny," 
said  Sus;\n,  anxious  to  stnp  this  revelation 
of  Will's  attachment  to  herself.  "  He'll 
come  round  to  her  soon  ;  he  can't  foil  ;  and 
I'll  keep  a  sharp  look-out  after  the  poor 
mother,  and  try  and  catch  her  the  next 
time  she  comes  with  her  little  parcel  of 
money." 

"  Aye.  lass  !  we  mun  get  hold  of  her ;  my 
Lizzie.  I  love  thee  dearly  for  thy  kindness 
to  lier  child  :  hut,  if  tiiou  canst  catch  her 
fi.r  me.  I'll  pray  for  thee  when  I'm  too  near 
my  death  to  speak  words  ;  and  while  I  live, 
I'll  serve  thee  next  to  her, — she  mun  come 
first,  thou  knowst.  God  bless  thee,  lass. 
My  heart  is  lighter  by  a  deal  than  it  was 
when  I  corned  in.  Them  lads  will  be  look- 
iu'X  for  me  home,  and  I  mun  go,  and  leave 
this  little  sweet  one,"  kissing  it.  "  If  I  can 
take  courage,  I'll  tell  Will  all  that  has  come 
and  gone  between  us  two.  He  may  come 
and  s-e  thee,  maynt  he  !" 

"  Father  will  be  very  glad  to  see  him,  I'm 
sure."  replied  Susan.  The  way  in  which 
this  was  spoken  satisfied  Mrs.  Leigh's  ans- 
i-.ius  heart  that  she  had  done  Will  no  harm 
by  what  she  had  said  ;  and  with  many  a 
kiss  to  the  little  one.  and  one  more  fervent 
tearful  blessing  on  Susan,  she  went  home- 
wards. 


CHAPTER  III. 

That  night  Mrs.  Leigh  stopped  at  home  ; 
that  only  ni^lit  for  many  months.  Even 
Tom,  the  scholar,  looked  up  from  his  books 
in  amazement ;  but  then  he  remembered 
that  Will  had  not  been  well,  and  that  his 
mother's  attention  having  been  called  to  the 
circumstance,  it  was  only  natural  she  should 
stay  to  watch  him.  And  no  watching  could 
be  more  tender,  or  more  complete.  Her 
loving  eyes  seemed  never  averted  from  his 
face  ;  his  grave,  sad,  care-worn  face.  When 
Tom  went  to  bed  the  mother  left  her  seat, 
and  going  up  to  Will  where  he  sat  looking 
at  the  fire,  but  not  seeing  it,  she  kissed  his 
forehead,  and  said, 

"  Will  !  lad,  I've  been  to  see  Susan  Pal- 
mer !" 

.She  felt  the  start  under  her  hand  which 
was  placed  on  his  shoulder,  but  he  was 
silent  for  a  minute  or  two.     Then  he  said, 

"  AVhat  took  you  there,  mother?" 

"  Why,  my  lad,  it  was  likely  I  should 
wish  to  see  one  you  cared  for  ;  I  did  not 
put  myself  forward.  I  put  on  my  Sunday 
clothes,  and  tried  to  behave  as  yo'd  ha  liked 
me.  At  least  I  remember  trying  at  first  ; 
but  after,  I  forgot  all." 

She  rather  wished  that  he  would  question 
her  as  to  what  made  her  forget  all.  But  he 
only  said, 


"  How  was  she  looking,  mother?' 
"  Will,  thou  seest  1  never  set  eyes  ou  her 
before  ;    but  she's   a   good,  gentle  looking 
creature ;  and  I  love  her  dearly,  as  I've  rea- 
son to." 

Will  looked  up  with  momentary  surprise  ; 
for  his  mother  was  too  shy  to  "bo  usually 
taken  with  strangers.  But  after  all  it  was 
natural  in  this  case,  for  who  could  look  at 
Susan  without  loving  her  ?  So  still  he  did 
not  ask  any  questions,  and  his  poor  mother 
had  to  take  courage,  and  try  again  to  in- 
troduce the  subject  near  to  her  heart.  But 
how? 

'•Will!"  said  she  (jerking  it  out,  in 
sudden  despair  of  her  own  powers  to  lead  to 
what  she  wanted  to  say),  "  I  telled  her  all." 
"  Mother  I  you've  ruined  me,"  said  he, 
standing  up,  and  standing  opposite  to  her 
with  a  stern  white  look  of  affright  on  his 
face. 

"  No !  my  own  dear  lad  ;  dunnot  look  so 
scared,  I  have  not  ruined  you  !"  she  ex- 
claimed, placing  her  two  hands  on  hia 
shoulders  and  looking  fondly  into  his  face, 
"  She's  not  one  to  harden  her  heart  against 
a  mother's  sorrow.  My  own  lad,  she's  too 
good  for  that.  She's  not  one  to  judge  and 
scorn  the  sinner.  She's  too  deep  read  in 
her  New  Testament  for  that.  Take  courage. 
Will  ;  and  thou  mayst,  for  I  watched  her 
well,  though  it  is  not  for  one  woman  to  let 
out  another's  secret.  Sit  thee  down,  lad, 
for  thou  look'st  very  white." 

He  sat  down.  His  mother  drew  a  stool 
towards  him,  and  sat  at  his  feet. 

"  Did  you  tell  her  about  Lizzie,  then  ?" 
asked  he,  hoarse  and  low. 

"  I  did,  I  telled  her  all  ;  and  she  fell  a 
crying  over  my  deep  sorrow,  and  the  poor 
wench's  sin.  And  then  a  light  corned  into 
her  face,  trembling  and  quivering  with  some 
new  glad  thought  ;  and  what  dost  thou  think 
it  was.  Will,  lad?  Nay,  I'll  not  misdoubt 
but  that  thy  heart  will  give  thanks  as  mine 
did,  afore  God  and  His  angels,  for  her  great 
goodness.  That  little  iS'anny  is  not  her 
niece,  she's  our  Lizzie's  own  child,  my  little 
grandchild."  She  could  no  longer  restrain 
her  tears,  and  they  fell  hot  and  fast,  but  stiU 
she  looked  into  his  face. 

"  Did  she  know  it  was  Lizzie's  child  ?  I  do 
not  comprehend,"  said  he,  flushing  red. 

"  She  knows  now  ;  she  did  not  at  first, 
but  took  the  little  helpless  creature  in,  out 
of  her  own  pitiful  loving  heart,  guessing 
only  that  it  was  the  child  of  shame,  and 
she's  worked  for  it,  and  kept  it,  and  tended 
it  ever  sin'  it  were  a  mere  baby,  and  loves 
it  fondly.  Will !  won't  you  love  it  ?"  asked 
she  beseechingly. 

He   was    silent  for  an   instant;    then    he 

said,  "  Mother,  I'll  try.     Give  me  time,  f'>r 

all   these  things  startle   me.     To   think  of 

Susan  having  to  do  with  such  a  child!" 

"  Aye,  Will !  and  to  think  (as  may  be  yet) 


198 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


of  Susan  havino;  to  do  with  the  child's  mo- 
ther! For  she  is  tender  and  pitiful,  and 
speaks  hopefully  of  my  lost  one,  and  will  try 
and  find  her  for  me,  when  she  comes,  as  she 
does  sometimes,  to  thrnst  money  under  the 
door,  for  her  bahy.  Think  of  that,  Will. 
Here's  Susan,  jroud  and  pure  as  the  angels  in 
heaven,  yet,  like  them,  full  of  hope  and  mer- 
cy, and  one  who  like  them,  will  rejoice  over 
her  as  repents.  Will,  my  lad,  I'm  not  afeard 
of  you  now,  and  I  must  speak,  and  you  must 
listen.  I  am  your  mother,  and  I  dare  to 
command  you,  because  I  know  I  am  in  the 
right,  and  that  God  is  on  my  side.  If  he 
should  lead  the  poor  wandering  lassie  to 
Susan's  door,  and  she  comes  back  crying 
and  sorrowful,  led  by  that  good  angel 
to  us  once  more,  thou  shalt  never  say  a 
casting-up  word  to  her  about  her  sin,  but 
be  tender  and  helpful  towards  one  'who 
\vas  lost  and  is  found,'  so  may  God's 
blessing  rest  on  thee,  .and  so  mayst  thou 
lead  Susan  home  as  thy  wife." 

She  stood  no  longer  as  the  meek,  implo- 
ring, gentle  mother,  but  firm  and  dignified, 
as  if  the  interpreter  of  God's  will.  Iler 
manner  was  so  unusual  and  solemn,  that  it 
overcame  all  Will's  pride  and  stubbornness. 
He  rose  softly  while  she  was  speaking,  and 
bent  his  head  as  if  in  reverence  at  her  words, 
and  the  solemn  injunction  which  they  con- 
veyed. AVhen  she  had  spoken,  he  said  in 
BO  subdued  a  voice  that  she  was  almost  sur- 
prised at  the  sound,  "  Mother,  I  will." 

"  I  may  be  dead  and  gone, — but  all  the 
same, — thou  wilt  take  home  the  wandering 
sinner,  and  heal  up  her  sorrows,  and  lead 
her  to  her  Father's  house.  My  lad  !  I  can 
speak  no  more  ;  I'm  turned  very  faint." 

He  placed  her  on  a  chair ;  he  ran  for 
water.     She  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled. 

"  God  bless  you,  Will.  Oh !  I  am  so 
happy.  It  seems  as  if  she  were  found  ;  my 
heart  is  so  filled  with  gladness." 

That  night  Mr.  Palmer  stayed  out  late 
and  long.  Susan  was  afraid  that  he  was  at 
his  old  haunts  and  habits, — getting  tipsy 
at  some  public-house ;  and  this  thought  op- 
pressed her,  even  though  she  had  so  much 
to  make  her  happy,  in  the  consciousness 
that  Will  loved  her.  She  sat  up  long,  and 
then  went  to  bed,  leaving  all  arranged  as  well 
as  she  could  for  her  father's  return.  She 
looked  at  the  little  rosy  sleeping  girl  who 
was  her  bed-fellow,  with  redoubled  tender- 
ness, and  with  many  a  prayerful  thought. 
The  little  arms  entwined  her  neck  as  she  lay 
down,  for  Nanny  was  a  light  sleeper,  and 
was  conscious  that  she,  who  was  loved  with 
all  the  power  of  that  sweet  childish  heart,  was 
near  her,  and  by  her,  although  she  was  too 
sleepy  to  utter  any  of  her  half-formed  words. 

And  by-and,by  she  heard  her  father  come 
home,  stumbling  uncertain,  trying  first  the 
windows,  and  next  the  door-fastenings,  with 
many  a  loud  incoherent  murmur.    The  little 


innocent  twined  around  her  seemed  all  the 
sweeter  and  more  lovely,  when  she  thought 
sadly  of  her  erring  father.  And  presently 
he  called  aloud  for  a  light ;  she  had  left 
matches  and  all  arranged  as  usual  on  the 
dresser,  but  fearful  of  some  accident  from 
fire,  in  his  unusually  intoxicated  state,  she 
now  got  up  soi"tly,  and  putting  on  a  cloak, 
went  down  to  his  assistance. 

Alas  !  the  little  arms  that  were  unclosed 
from  her  soft  neck  belonged  to  a  light,  easily 
awakened  sleeper.  Nanny  missed  her  dar- 
ling Susy,  and  terrified  at  being  left  alone 
in  the  vast  mysterious  darkness,  which  had 
no  bounds,  and  seemed  infinite,  she  slipped 
out  of  bed,  and  tottered  in  her  little  night- 
gown towards  the  door.  There  was  a  light 
below,  and  there  was  Susy  and  safety  !  So 
she  went  onwards  two  steps  towards  the 
steep  abrupt  stairs  ;  and  then  dazzled  with 
sleepiness,  she  stood,  she  wavered,  she  fell  1 
Down  on  her  head  on  the  stone  floor  she  fell! 
Susan  flew  to  her,  and  spoke  all  soft,  entreat- 
ing, loving  words  ;  but  her  white  lids  covered 
up  the  blue  violets  of  eyes,  and  there  was  no 
murmur  came  out  of  the  pale  lips.  The 
warm  tears  that  rained  down  did  not  awaken 
her;  she  lay  stiff,  and  weary  with  her  short 
life,  on  Susan's  knee.  Susan  went  sick  with 
terror.  She  carried  her  up  stairs,  and  laid 
her  tenderly  in  bed  ;  she  dressed  herself 
most  hastily,  with  her  trembling  fingers. 
Her  father  was  asleep  on  the  settle  down 
stairs  ;  and  useless,  and  worse  than  useless  if 
awake.  But  Susan  flew  out  of  the  door,  and 
down  the  quiet  resounding  street,  towards 
the  nearest  doctor's  house.  Quickly  she 
went;  but  as  quickly  a  shadow  followed,  as 
if  impelled  by  some  sudden  terror.  Susan 
rung  wildly  the  night-bell, —  the  shadow 
crouched  near.  The  doctor  looked  out  from 
an  upstairs  window. 

"  A  little  child  has  fallen  down  stairs  at 
No.  9,  Crown-street,  and  is  very  ill, — dying 
I'm  afraid.  Please,  for  God's  sake,  sir, 
come  directly.     No.  9,  Crown-street." 

"  I'll  be  there  directly,"  said  he,  and  shut 
the  window. 

"  For  that  God  you  have  just  spoken  about, 
— for  His  sake, — tell  me  are  you  Susan 
Palmer?  Is  it  my  child  that  lies  a-dying?" 
said  the  shadow,  springing  forwards,  and 
clutching  poor  Susan's  arm. 

"  It  is  a  little  child  of  two  years  old, — I  do 
not  know  whose  it  is ;  I  love  it  as  my  own. 
Come  with  me,  whoever  you  are ;  come  with 
me." 

The  two  sped  along  the  silent  streets, — as 
silent  as  the  night  were  they.  They  entered 
the  house;  Susan  snatched  up  the  light,  and 
carried  it  up  stairs.     The  other  followed. 

She  stood  with  wild  glaring  eyes  by  the 
bedside,  never  looking  at  Susan,  but  hun- 
grily gazing  at  the  little  white  still  child. 
She  stooped  down,  and  put  her  hand  tight 
on  her  own  heart,  as  if  to  still  its  beating, 


LIZZIE   LEIGH. 


199 


and  bent  her  ear  to  the  pale  lips.  Whatever 
the  result  was,  she  did  not  speak  ;  but  threw 
off  the  bed-clothes  wherewith  Susan  had  ten- 
derly covered  up  the  little  creature,  and  felt 
its  left  side, 

Then  slie  threw  up  her  arms  with  a  cry 
jf  wild  despair. 

"  She  is  dead  !  she  is  dead  !" 

She  looked  so  fierce,  so  mad,  so  ha<2;giird, 
that  for  an  instant  Susan  was  terrified — the 
next,  the  holy  God  had  put  couraj^e  into  her 
heart,  and  her  pure  arms  were  round  tiiat 
f!;uilty  wretched  creature,  and  her  tears  were 
falling  fast  and  warm  upon  her  breast.  But 
she  was  thrown  off  with  violence. 

"  You  killed  her — you  slighted  her — you 
let  her  fall !  you  killed  her  !" 

Susan  cleared  off  the  thick  mist  before  her, 
and  gazing  at  the  mother  with  a  clear,  sweet, 
angel-eyes,  said  mournfully — 

"  I  would  have  laid  down  my  own  life  for 
her." 

"  Oh,  the  murder  is  on  my  soul !"  ex- 
claimed the  wild  bereaved  mother,  with  the 
fierce  impetuosity  of  one  who  has  none  to 
love  her  and  to  be  beloved,  regard  to  whom 
might  teach  self-restraint. 

'■  llush  !"  said  Susan,  her  fingers  on  her 
lips.  "  Here  is  the  doctor.  God  may  suffer 
her  to  live." 

The  poor  mother  turned  sharp  round. 
The  doctor  mounted  the  stair.  Ah!  that 
mother  was  right ;  the  little  child  was  really 
dead  and  gone. 

And  when  he  confirmed  her  judgment, 
the  mother  fell  down  in  a  fit.  Susan,  with 
her  deep  grief,  had  to  forget  herself,  and 
forget  her  darling  (her  charge  for  years), 
and  question  the  doctor  what  she  must  do 
with  the  poor  wretch,  who  lay  on  the  floor 
in  such  extreme  misery. 

"  She  is  the  mother!"  said  she. 

"  Why  did  not  she  take  care  of  the  child  ?" 
asked  he,  almost  angrily. 

But  Susan  only  said,  "  The  little  child 
slept  with  me  ;  and  it  was  I  that  left  her." 

"  I  will  go  back  and  make  up  a  com- 
posing draught ;  and  while  I  am  away  you 
must  get  her  to  bed." 

Susan  took  out  some  of  her  own  clothes, 
and  softly  undressed  the  stiff,  powerless 
form.  There  was  no  other  bed  in  the  house 
but  the  one  in  which  her  father  slept.  So  she 
tenderly  lifted  the  body  of  her  darling;  and 
was  going  to  take  it  down  stairs,  but  the 
mother  opened  her  eyes,  and  seeing  what 
she  was  about  she  said, 

"  I  am  not  worthy  to  touch  her,  I  am  so 
wicked  ;  I  have  spoken  to  you  as  I  never 
should  have  spoken  ;  but  I  think  you  are 
very  good  ;  may  I  have  my  own  child  to  lie 
in  my  arms  for  a  little  while  ?" 

Her  voice  was  so  strange  a  contrast  to 
what  it  had  been  before  she  had  gone  into 
the  fit  that  Susan  hardly  recognised  it ;  it 
was  now  so  unspeakably  soft,  so  irresistibly 


pleading ;  the  features  too  had  Im  their 
fierce  expression,  and  were  almost  as  placid 
as  death.  Susan  could  not  speak,  bit  she 
carried  the  little  child,  and  laid  it  in  its 
mother's  arms  ;  then  as  she  looked  at  them, 
something  overpowered  her,  and  she  knelt 
down,  crying  aloud, 

"  Oh,  my  Gud,  my  God,  have  mercy  on 
her,  and  forgive,  and  comfort  her." 

But  the  mother  kept  smiling,  and  stroking 
the  little  fiice,  murmuring  soft  tender  words, 
as  if  it  were  alive;  she  was  going  mad, 
Susan  thought ;  but  she  prayed  on,  and  on, 
and  ever  still  she  prayed  with  streaming 
eyes. 

The  doctor  came  with  the  draught.  The 
mother  took  it,  with  docile  unconsciousness 
of  its  nature  as  medicine.  The  doctor  sat 
by  her  and  soon  she  fell  asleep.  Then  he 
rose  softly,  and  beckoning  Susan  to  the 
door,  he  spoke  to  her  there. 

"  Yoa  must  take  the  corpse  out  of  her 
arms'.  She  will  not  awake.  That  draught 
will  make  her  sleep  for  many  hours.  I  wiil 
call  before  noon  again.  It  is  now  daylight. 
Good-bye." 

Susan  shut  him  out ;  and  then  gently  ex- 
tricating the  dead  child  from  its  mother's 
arms,  she  could  not  resist  making  her  own 
quiet  moan  over  her  darling.  She  tried  to 
learn  off  its  little  placid  face,  dumb  and  pale 
before  her. 

"Not  all  the  scalJing  tears  of  care 
Shall  wash  away  that  vision  lair  ! 
Not  all  the  thousand  thoughts  that  rise. 
Not  all  the  sights  that  dim  her  eyes. 
Shall  e'er  usurp  the  place 
Of  that  httle  angt'l-lacc." 

And  then  she  remembered  what  remained 
to  be  done.  She  saw  that  all  was  right  in 
the  house  ;  her  father  was  still  dead  asleep 
on  the  settle,  in  spite  of  all  tlie  noise  of  the 
night.  She  went  out  through  the  quiet 
streets,  deserted  still  although  it  wns  broad 
daylight,  and  to  where  the  Leighs  lived. 
Mrs.  Leigh,  who  kept  her  country  hnurs. 
was  opening  her  window  shutters.  Susan 
took  her  by  the  arm,  and,  without  speaking, 
went  into  the  house-place.  There  slip  knelt 
down  before  the  astonished  Mrs.  Leigh,  and 
cried  as  she  hail  never  done  before  ;  but  the 
miserable  night  had  overpowered  her,  and 
she  who  had  gone  through  so  much  calmly, 
now  that  the  pressure  seemed  removed  could 
not  find  the  power  to  speak. 

"  My  poor  dear !  AVhat  has  made  thy 
heart  so  sore  as  to  come  and  cry  a-this-ns. 
Speak  and  tell  me.  Nay,  cry  on,  poor  wench, 
if  thou  canst  not  speak  yet.  It  will  ease  the 
heart,  and  then  thou  canst  tell  me." 

"  Nanny  is  dead  !"  said  Susan.  "  I  left 
her  to  go  to  father,  and  she  fell  down  stairs, 
and  never  breathed  again.  Oh,  that's  my 
sorrow  !  but  I've  more  to  tell.     Her  mother 


200 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


19  come — is  in  our  house  !  Come  and  see  if 
it's  your  Lizzie."  Mrs.  Leigh  couKl  not 
speak,  but  trembling,  put  on  her  things,  and 
went  with  Susan  in  dizzy  haste  baeii  to 
Crown-slreet. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

As  they  entered  the  house  in  Crown-street, 
they  pcri'cived  that  the  door  would  not  open 
freely  on  its  hinges,  and  Susan  instinctively 
hxikfd  behind  to  see  the  cause  of  the  ob- 
srructiiin.  She  immediately  recognised  the 
anpearnnce  of  a  little  parcel,  wrapped  in  a 
scrap  of  newspaper,  and  evidently  contain- 
ing money.     She  stoopeil   and  picked  it  up. 

•'  Look  I"  said  she,  sorrowfully,  "  the  mo- 
ther was  bringing  this  for  her  child  last 
niglit." 

But  Mrs.  Leigh  did  not  answer.  So  near 
t"  the  ascertaining  if  it  were  her  lost  child 
nr  no,  she  could  not  be  arrested,  but  pressed 
onwiirds  with  trembling  steps  and  a  beating, 
liuttering  heart.  She  entered  the  bed-room, 
dark  ana  still.  She  took  no  heed  of  the  little 
corpse,  over  which  Susan  paused,  but  she 
wont  straight  to  the  bed,  and  withdrawing 
flie  curtain,  saw  Lizzie, — but  not  the  former 
L'zzie,  bright,  gay,  buu^-ant,  and  undimmed. 
This  Lizzie  Avas  old  before  her  time  ;  her 
beauty  was  gone:  deep  lines  of  care,  and  alas  ! 
(.f  want  (or  thus  the  mother  imagined)  were 
printed  on  the  cheek,  so  round,  and  fair, 
and  smooth,  when  last  she  gladdened  her 
motJier's  eyes.  Even  in  her  sleep  she  bore 
tlie  look  of  woe  and  despair  which  was  the 
prevalent  expression  of  her  face  by  day ; 
even  in  hfr  sleep  she  had  forgotten  how  to 
smile.  But  all  these  marks  of  the  sin  and 
sorrow  she  had  passed  through  only  made 
her  mother  love  her  the  more.  She  stood 
looking  at  her  with  greedy  eyes,  which 
seemed  as  though  no  gazing  could  satisfy 
their  longing  ;  and  at  last  she  stooped  down 
and  kissed  the  pale,  worn  hand  that  lay 
outside  the  bed-clothes.  No  touch  disturbed 
tlie  sleeper  ;  the  mother  need  not  have  laid 
the  hand  so  gently  down  upon  the  counter- 
pane. Tliere  was  no  sign  of  life,  save  only 
now  nnd  then  a  deep  sob-like  sigh.  Mrs. 
Leigh  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  and  still 
holding  back  the  curtain,  looked  on  and  on, 
as  if  she  ccjuld  never  be  satisfied. 

Susan  would  fain  have  stayed  by  her  darling 
one  ;  but  she  had  many  calls  upon  her  time 
and  thoughts,  and  her  will  had  now,  as  ever, 
t((  be  given  up  to  that  of  others.  All  seemed 
to  devolve  the  burden  of  their  cares  on  her. 
Her  father,  ill-humored  from  his  last  night's 
intemperance,  did  not  scruple  to  reproach 
her  with  being  the  cause  of  little  Nanny's 
death ;  and  when,  after  hearing  his  up- 
braiding meekly  for  stmie  time,  she  could 
no  longer  restrain  herself,  but  began  to  cry, 


he  wounded  her  even  more  by  his  injudicious 
attempts  at  comfort:  for  he  said  it  was  as 
well  the  child  was  dead  ;  it  was  none  of 
theirs,  and  why  should  they  be  troubled 
with  it?  Suxan  wrung  her  hands  at  this, 
and  came  and  stood  before  her  father,  and 
iuij)lored  him  to  forbear.  Then  she  had  to 
take  all  requisite  steps  for  the  coroner's  in- 
(juest ;  she  had  to  arrange  for  the  dismissal 
of  her  school  ;  she  had  to  summon  a  little 
neighbor,  and  send  iiis  willing  feet  on  a 
message  to  William  Leigh,  who,  she  felt, 
ought  to  be  informed  of  his  mother's  where- 
abouts, and  of  the  whole  state  of  affairs. 
She  asked  her  messenger  to  tell  him  to  come 
and  speak  to  her, — that  his  mother  was  at 
her  house.  She  was  thankful  that  her  father 
sauntered  out  to  have  a  gossip  at  the  nearest 
coach-stand,  and  to  relate  as  many  of  the 
night's  adventures  as  he  knew;  for  as  yet  he 
was  in  ignorance  of  the  watcher  and  the 
watched,  who  silently  passed  away  the  hours 
up  stairs. 

At  dinner-time  Will  came.  He  looked 
red,  glad,  impatient,  excited.  Susan  stood 
calm  and  white  before  him,  her  soft,  loving 
eyes  gazing  straight  into  his. 

"  Will,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  quiet  voice, 
"  your  sister  is  up  stairs." 

"My  sister!"  said  he,  as  if  affrighted  at 
the  idea,  and  losing  his  glad  look  in  one  of 
gloom.  Susan  saw  it,  and  her  heart  sank  a 
little,  Ijut  she  went  on  as  calm  to  all  appear- 
ance as  ever. 

"  She  was  little  Nanny's  mother,  as  per- 
haps you  know.  Poor  little  Nanny  wag 
killed  last  night  by  a  fall  down  stairs."  All 
the  calmness  was  gone  ;  all  the  suppressed 
feeling  was  displayed  in  spite  of  every  effort. 
She  sat  down,  and  hid  her  face  from  him, 
and  cried  bitterly.  He  forgot  everything 
but  the  wish,  the  longing  to  comfort  her. 
He  put  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  bent 
over  her.  But  all  he  could  say,  was,  "  Oh, 
Susan,  how  can  I  comfort  you  !  Don't  take 
on  so, — pray  don't !"  He  never  changed  the 
words,  but  the  tone  varied  every  time  he 
spoke.  At  last  she  seemed  to  regain  her 
power  over  herself;  and  she  wiped  her  eyes, 
and  once  more  looked  upon  him  with  her 
own  quiet,  earnest,  and  unfearing  gaze. 

"  Your  sister  was  near  the  house.  She 
came  in  on  hearing  my  words  to  the  doctor. 
She  is  asleep  now,  and  your  mother  is 
watching  her.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  all  my- 
self.    Would  you  like  to  see  your  mother  ?" 

"  No !"  said  he.  "  I  would  rather  see 
none  but  thee.  Mother  told  me  thou  knew'st 
all."  His  eyes  were  downcast  in  their 
shame. 

But  the  holy  and  pure,  did  not  lower  op 
vail  her  eyes. 

She  said,  "  Yes,  I  know  all — all  but  her  suf- 
ferings.   Think  what  they  must  have  been  I" 

He  made  answer  low  and  stern,  "She  de- 
served them  all;  every  jot." 


LIZZIE   LEIGH. 


201 


"  In  the  eye  of  God,  perhaps  she  does. 
He  is  tlie  judge  ;  we  are  not." 

"Oh!"  she  said  with  a  sudden  burst, 
"  ^Yill  Leigh!  I  have  thought  so  well  of 
you  ;  don't  go  and  make  me  think  you  cruel 
and  hard.  Goodness  is  not  goodness  unless 
tliere  is  mercy  and  tenderness  with  it.  There 
is  your  motlier  who  has  been  nearly  heart- 
broken, now  full  of  rejoicing  over  her  child 
— think  of  your  mother." 

•'  I  do  think  of  her,"  said  he.  "  I  re- 
member the  promise  I  gave  her  last  night. 
Thou  shouldst  give  me  time.  I  would  do 
right  in  time.  I  never  think  it  o'er  in  quiet. 
But  I  will  do  what  is  right  and  fitting, 
never  fear.  Thou  hast  spoken  out  very 
yihiin  to  me  ;  and  misdoubted  me,  Susan  ; 
I  love  thee  so.  that  thy  words  cut  me.  If  I 
did  hang  back  a  bit  from  making  sudden 
promises,  it  was  because  not  even  for  love 
of  thee,  wouli]  I  say  what  I  was  not  feeling  ; 
and  at  first  I  could  not  feel  all  at  once  as 
tiiou  wouldst  have  me.  But  I'm  not  cruel 
and  hard  ;  for  if  I  had  been,  I  should  na' 
have  grieved  as  I  have  done." 

He  made  as  if  he  were  going  away  ;  and 
indeed  he  did  feel  he  would  rather  think  it 
over  in  quiet.  But  Susan,  grieved  at  her 
incautious  words,  which  had  all  the  appear- 
ance of  harshness,  went  a  step  or  two  nearer 
— paused — and  then,  all  over  blushes,  said 
in  a  low  soft  whisper — 

"  Oh  Will  !  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  am 
very  sorry — wont  you  forgive  me  ?" 

She  who  had  always  drawn  back,  and 
been  so  reserved,  said  this  in  the  very  softest 
manner  ;  with  eyes  now  uplifted  beseech- 
ingly, now  dropped  to  the  ground.  Her 
sweet  confusion  told  more  than  words  could 
do  ;  and  Will  turned  back,  all  joyous  in  his 
certainty  of  being  beloved,  and  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

'■  My  own  Susan  \"  he  said. 

Meanwhile  the  mother  watched  her  child 
in  the  room  above. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  she 
awoke  ;  for  the  sleeping  draught  had  been 
very  powerful.  The  instant  she  awoke,  her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  her  mother's  face  with  a 
gaze  as  unflinching  as  if  she  were  fasci- 
nated. Mrs.  Leigh  did  not  turn  away  ;  nor 
move.  For  it  seemed  as  if  motion  would 
unlock  the  stony  command  over  herself 
which,  while  so  perfectly  still,  she  was 
enabled  to  preserve.  But  by-and-bye  Lizzie 
cried  out  in  a  piercing  voice  of  agony — 

"  Mother,  don't  look  at  me  !  I  have  been 
80  wicked  !"  and  instantly  she  hid  her  fiice, 
and  grovelled  among  the  bedclothes,  and 
lay  like  one  dead — so  motionless  was  she. 

Mrs.  Leigh  knelt  down  by  the  bed,  and 
epoSe  in  the  most  soothing  tones. 

"  Lizzie,  dear,  don't  speak  so.  I'm  thy 
mother,  darling ;  don't  be  afeard  of  mc. 
I  never  left  off  loving  tht'C,  Lizzie.  I  was 
always  a-thinking  of  thee.     Thy  father  for- 


gave thee  afore  he  died."  (There  was  a 
little  start  here,  but  no  sound  wiis  heard.) 
"  Lizzie,  lass,  I'll  do  aught  fur  thee ;  I'll 
live  for  thee  ;  only  don't  be  afeard  of  me. 
Whate'er  thou  art  or  hast  been,  we'll  ne'er 
speak  on't.  We'll  leave  th'  oud  times  be- 
hind us,  and  go  back  to  the  Upclose  Farm. 
I  hut  left  it  to  find  thee,  my  lass ;  and  Gud 
has  led  me  to  thee.  Blessed  be  His  name. 
And  God  is  good  too,  Lizzie.  Thou  ha^t 
not  forgotten  thy  Bible,  I'll  be  bound,  for 
thou  wert  always  a  scliolar.  I'm  no  reader, 
but  I  learnt  off'  them  te.xts  to  comfort  me  a 
bit.  and  I've  said  them  many  a  day  to  my 
self.  Lizzie,  lass,  don't  hide  tiiy  head  so, 
it's  thy  mother  as  is  speaking  to  thee.  Tiiy 
little  child  clung  to  mo  only  yesterday; 
and  if  it's  gone  to  be  an  angel,  it  will  speak 
to  God  for  thee.  Nay,  don't  sob  a  that  'as ; 
thou  shalt  have  it  again  in  Heaven  ;  I 
know  thuu'lt  strive  to  get  there,  for  thy 
little  Nanny's  sake — and  listen  !  I'll  tell 
thee  God's  promises  to  tlnMu  that  are  peni- 
tent— only  don't  be  afeard  1" 

Mrs.  Leigh  folded  her  hands.  nui\  strove  to 
speak  very  clearly,  while  she  rejieated  every 
tender  and  merciful  text  she  could  remem- 
ber. She  could  tell  from  the  breathing  that 
her  daughter  was  listening;  but  she  was  so 
dizzy  and  sick  herself  when  she  had  ended, 
that  she  could  not  go  on  speaking.  It  wad 
all  she  could  do  to  keep  from  crying  aloud. 

At  last  she  heard  her  dauglitcr's  voice. 

"  Where  have  they  taken  her  to  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  She  is  down  stairs.  So  quiet,  and 
peaceful  and  happy  she  looks." 

"  Could  she  speak  ?  Oh,  if  God— if  I 
might  but  have  heard  her  little  voice  1 
Mother,  I  used  to  dream  of  it.  May  I  see 
her  once  again — Oh  mother,  if  I  strive  very 
hard,  and  God  is  very  merciful,  and  I  go  to 
heaven,  I  shall  not  know  her — I  shall  not 
know  my  own  again — she  will  shun  me  as 
a  stranger  and  cling  to  Susan  I'almer  and 
to  you.  Oh  woe  !  Oh  woe  !"  She  shook 
with  exceeding  sorrow. 

In  her  earnestness  of  speech  she  had  un- 
covered her  face  and  tried  to  read  Mrs, 
Leigh's  thoughts  through  her  looks.  And 
when  she  saw  those  aged  eyes  brimming 
full  of  tears,  and  marked  the  quivering  lips, 
she  threw  her  arms  around  the  faithful 
mother's  neck,  and  wept  there  as  she  had 
done  in  many  a  childi>h  sorrow  ;  but  with 
a  deeper,  a  more  wretched  grief. 

Her  mother  hushed  her  on  iier  breast  ; 
and  lulled  her  as  if  she  were  a  baby  ;  and 
she  grew  still  and  quiet. 

They  sat  thus  for  a  long,  long  time.  At 
last,  Susan  Palmer  came  up  with  some  tea 
and  bread  and  butter  for  .Mrs.  Leigh.  She 
watched  the  mother  feed  her  sick,  unwill- 
ing child,  with  every  fimd  inducement  to 
eat  which  she  could  devise  ;  they  neither 
of  them  took   notice  of  Susan's  presence. 


1202 


DiCKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


That  night  they  lay  in  each  other's  arms  ; 
but  Susan  slept  on  the  ground  beside  them. 

They  took  the  little  corpse  (the  little  un- 
conscious sacrifice,  whose  early  calling-home 
had  reclaimed  her  poor  wandering  mother,) 
to  the  hills,  which  in  her  life-time  she  had 
never  seen.  Tiiey  dared  not  lay  her  by  the 
stern  grand-father  in  Milne-llow  church- 
yard, but  they  bore  her  to  a  lone  moorland 
graveyard,  where  long  ago  the  quakers  used 
to  bury  their  dead.  They  laid  her  there 
on  the  sunny  slope,  where  the  earliest 
spring-flowers  blow. 

Will  and  Susan  live  at  the  Upclose  Farm. 
Mrs.  Leigh  and  Lizzie  dwell  in  a  cottage  so 
secluded  that,  until  you  drop  into  the  very 
hollow  where  it  is  placed,  you  do  not  see  it. 
Tom  is  a  schoolmaster  in  Rochdale,  and  he 
and  Will  help  to  support  their  mother.  I 
only  know  that,  if  the  cottage  be  hidden  in 
u  green  hollow  of  the  hills,  every  sound  of 


sorrow  in  the  whole  upland  is  heard  there 
— every  call  of  suffering  or  of  sickness  for 
help  is  listened  to,  by  a  sad,  gentle-looking 
woman,  who  rarely  smiles  (and  when  she 
does,  her  smile  is  more  sad  than  other  peo- 
ple's tears),  but  who  comes  out  of  her  se- 
clusion whenever  there's  a  shadow  in  any 
household.  Many  hearts  bless  Lizzie  Leigh, 
but  she — she  prays  always  and  ever  for  for- 
giveness— such  forgiveness  as  may  enable 
her  to  see  her  child  once  more.  Mrs. 
Leigh  is  quiet  and  happy.  Lizzie  is  to  her 
eyes  something  precious — as  the  lost  piece 
of  silver — found  once  more.  Susan  is  the 
bright  one  who  brings  sunshine  to  all. 
Children  grow  around  her  and  call  her 
blessed.  One  is  called  Nanny.  Her,  Liz- 
zie often  takes  to  the  sunny  graveyard  in 
the  uplands,  and  while  the  little  creature 
gathers  the  daisies,  and  make  chains,  Liz- 
zie sits  by  a  little  grave,  and  weeps  bitterly. 


THE  MINER'S  DAUGHTERS. 

A  TALE  OF  THE  PEAK. 


• '-^^V^^S/^^^^^^^S^^ 


CHAPTER  r. 

TUE    child's    tragedy. 

There  is  no  really  beautiful  part  of  this 
kingdom  so  little  known  as  the  Peak  of 
Derhysliire.  Matlock,  with  its  tea-garden 
trumpery  and  mock-heroic  wonders  ;  Bux- 
ton, with  its  bleak  lulls  and  fashionable 
bathers  ;  the  truly  noble  Chatsworth  and 
the  venerable  Iladdon,  engross  almost  all 
that  the  pulilic  genei-ally  have  seen  of  the 
P'>ak.  It  is  talked  of  as  a  land  of  moun- 
tains, wliich  in  reality  are  only  hills;  but 
irs  true  beaut}'  lies  in  valleys  that  have  been 
created  by  the  rending  of  the  earth  in  some 
])rimeval  convulsion,  and  which  present  a 
tliousnnd  charms  to  the  eyes  of  the  lover  of 
nature. ,'  How  deliciously  du  the  crystal 
waters  of  the  Wye  and  the  Dove  rush  along 
such  valleys,  or  dales,  as  they  are  called. 
"With  what  a  wild  variety  do  the  gray  rocks 
tioar  up  amid  their  woods  and  copses.  How 
airily  stand  in  the  clear  heavens  the  lofty 
limestone  precipices,  and  the  gray  edges  of 
rock  gh'am  out  from  the  bare  green  downs 
— there  never  called  downs.  What  a  genu- 
ine Saxon  air  is  there  cast  over  the  popula- 
tion, what  a  Saxon  bluntness  salutes  you  in 
their  speech  ! 

It  is  into  the  heart  of  this  region  that  we 
propose  now  to  carry  the  reader.  Let  him 
suppose  himself  with  us  now  on  the  road 
from  Ashford-in-the-water  to  Tideswell.  Wo 
are  at  the  Bull's  Head,  a  little  inn  on  that 
road.  There  is  nothing  to  create  wonder, 
or  a  suspicion  of  a  hidden  Arcadia  in  any- 
thing you  see,  but  another  step  forward, 
and — there  !  There  sinks  a  world  of  valleys 
at  your  feet.  To  your  left  lies  the  delicious 
Monsal  Dale.  Old  Finn  Hill  lifts  his  gray 
head  grandly  over  it.  Ilobthrush's  Castle 
stands  bravely  forth  in  the  hollow  of  his 
side — gray,  and  desolate,  and  mysterious. 
The  sweet  Wye  goes  winding  and  sounding 
at  his  feet,  amid  its  narrow  green  meadows, 
green  as  the  emerald,  and  its  dark  glossy 


alders.  Before  us  strotchea  on,  equally 
beautiful,  Cressbrook  Dale ;  Little  Kdalo 
shows  its  cottages  from  amidst  its  trees  ;  and 
as  we  advance,  the  Mousselin-de-laine  Mills 
stretch  across  the  mouth  of  Miller's  Dale, 
and  startle  with  the  aspect  of  so  much  life 
amid  so  much  solitude. 

But  our  way  is  still  onward.  We  resist 
the  attraction  of  Cressbrook  village  on  its 
lofty  eminence,  and  plunge  to  the  right,  into 
Wardlow  Dale.  Here  we  are  buried  deep 
in  woods,  and  yet  behold  still  deeper  the 
valley  descend  below  us.  There  is  an  Al- 
pine feeling  upon  us.  We  are  carried  once 
more,  as  in  a  dream,  into  the  Saxon  Switzer- 
land. Above  us  stretch  the  boldest  ranges 
of  lofty  precipices,  and  deep  amid  the  woods 
are  heard  tlie  voices  of  children.  These 
come  from  a  few  w<jrkmen's  houses,  couched 
at  the  foot  of  a  cliff'  that  rises  high  and  bright 
amid  the  sun.  That  is  AV^ardlow  Cop;  and 
there  we  mean  to  halt  for  a  moment.  For- 
wards lies  a  wild  region  of  hills,  and  valleys, 
and  lead-mines,  but  fjrward  goes  no  road, 
except  such  as  you  can  make  yourself 
through  the  tangled  woods. 

At  the  foot  of  Wardlow  Cop,  before  this 
little  hamlet  of  Bellamy  Wick  was  built,  or 
the  glen  was  dignified  with  the  name  of 
Kaven  Dale,  there  lived  a  miner  who  had 
no  term  for  his  place  of  abode.  He  lived, 
he  said,  under  Wardlow  Cop,  and  that  con- 
tented him. 

His  house  was  one  of  those  little,  solid, 
gray  limestone  cottages,  with  gray  flagst(jno 
roofs,  which  abound  in  the  Peak.  It  had 
stood  under  that  lofty  precipice  when  the 
woods  which  now  so  densely  till  the  valley 
were  but  newly  planted.  There  had  been 
a  mine  near  it,  which  had  no  doubt  been 
the  occasion  of  its  erection  in  so  solitary  a 
place  ;  but  that  mine  was  now  worked  out, 
and  David  Dunster,  the  miner,  now  worked 
at  a  mine  right  over  the  hills  in  Miller's 
Dale.  He  was  seldom  at  home,  except  at 
night,  and  on  Sundays.  His  wife,  besides 
keeping   her  little  house,  and  digging  and 

(1103) 


204 


DICKEXS'   NEW   STORIES. 


woedinj;  in  the  strip  of  a  jrarden  that  lay  on 
the  steep  slope  ahovt^  tiie  liouse,  heniincij  in 
vritli  a  stone  wall,  also  seamed  stoekint^s  for 
a  framewurk-knittrT  in  Ashf  inl,  whither  she 
went  once  or  twice  in  the  week. 

Thej'  had  three  children,  a  hoy  and  two 
girls.  The  boy  was  ahout  eijrht  years  of 
ago;  the  p;irls  were  alxmt  five  and  six. 
These  children  were  tauj^ht  their  lessons  of 
spelling:  and  readin<z;  hy  the  mother,  amonj;st 
h'T  othrr  nuiltifariiius  tasks  ;  for  she  was 
one  of  those  who  are  called  reijular  plodders. 
She  was  quiet,  patient,  and  always  doing, 
thoujih  never  in  a  hustle.  She  was  not  one 
of  those  who  acquire  a  character  for  vast  in- 
dustry hy  doinjj;  everything  in  a  mighty 
flurry,  though  they  contrive  to  find  time  for 
a  tolerable  deal  of  gossip  under  the  plea  of 
resting  a  hit,  and  whi(di  "  resting  a  bit" 
they  always  terminate  by  an  exclamation 
that  "  they  must  be  ofi"  though,  for  they  have 
a  world  of  work  to  do."  Betty  Dunstar,  on 
the  contrary,  was  looked  on  as  rather  "  a 
slow  coach."  If  you  remarked  that  she  was 
a  hard-working  woman,  the  reply  was, 
*'  Well,  she's  always  doing — Betty's  work's 
never  done ;  but  then  she  does  na  hurry 
hersen."  The  fact  Avas,  Betty  was  a  thin, 
spare  woman,  of  no  very  strong  constitution, 
but  of  an  untiring  spirit.  Iler  pleasure  and 
rest  were,  when  Da\id  came  home  at  night, 
to  have  iiis  supper  ready,  and  to  sit  down 
opposite  to  him  at  the  little  round  table,  and 
help  him,  giving  a  bit  now  and  then  to  the 
children,  that  came  and  stood  round,  though 
they  had  had  their  suppers,  and  were  ready 
for  bed  as  soon  as  they  had  seen  something 
of  their  "  dud." 

David  Dunster  was  one  of  those  remark- 
ably tall  fellows  that  you  see  about  these 
hills,  who  seem  of  all  things  the  very  worst 
made  men  to  creep  into  the  little  mole  holes 
on  the  hill  sides  that  they  call  lead-mines. 
But  David  did  manage  to  burrow  under  and 
through  the  hard  limestone  rocks  as  well  as 
any  of  them.  lie  was  a  hard-working  man, 
though  he  liked  a  sup  of  beer,  as  most  Derby- 
shire men  dv,  and  sometimes  came  home 
none  of  the  soberest.  He  was  naturally  of 
a  very  hasty  temper,  and  would  fly  into 
great  rages  ;  and  if  he  were  put  out  by  any- 
thing in  the  working  of  the  mines,  or  the 
conduct  of  his  fellow-workmen,  he  would 
stay  away  from  home  for  days,  drinking  at 
Tideswell,  or  the  Bull's  Head  at  the  top  of 
Monsal  Dale,  or  down  at  the  Miner's  Arms 
at  Ashford-in-the-water. 

Betty  Dunster  bore  all  this  patiently. 
She  looked  on  these  things  somewhat  as 
matters  of  course.  At  that  time,  and  even 
aow,  how  few  miners  do  not  drink  and  "  rol 
a  bit,"  as  they  call  it.  She  was,  therefore, 
tolerant,  and  let  the  storms  blow  over,  ready 
always  to  persuade  her  husljand  to  go  home 
and  sleep  off  his  drink  and  anger,  but  if 
he  were  too  violent,  leaving  him    till  ano- 


ther attempt  might  succeed  better.  She 
was  very  fond  of  her  children,  and  not  only 
taught  them  on  week  days  their  lessons,  and 
to  help  her  to  seam,  but  also  took  them  tc 
the  Methodist  Chapid  in  "  Tidser,"  as  they 
calhMi  Tideswell,  whither,  whenever  she 
could,  she  enticed  David.  Davi<!,  too,  in  hiy 
way.  was  fond  of  the  children,  especially  of 
the  boy,  who  was  called  David  after  him. 
He  was  quite  wrapped  up  in  the  lad,  to  use 
the  phrase  of  the  people  in  tliat  part;  in 
fact,  ho  was  foolishly  and  mischievously 
fond  of  him.  lie  would  give  him  beer  to 
drink,  "  to  make  a  true  Briton  on  him,"  as 
he  said,  spite  of  Betty's  earnest  endeavor  to 
prevent  it — telling  him  that  he  was  laying 
the  fjundation  in  the  lad  of  the  same  faults 
that  he  had  himself.  But  David  Dunsti-r 
did  not  look  on  drinking  as  a  fault  at  all.  It 
was  what  he  had  been  used  to  all  his  life.  It 
was  what  all  the  miners  had  been  used  to 
for  generations.  A  man  was  looked  on  as  a 
milk-sop  and  a  Molly  Coddle,  that  would  not 
take  his  mug  of  ale,  and  be  merry  with  his 
comrades.  It  required  the  light  of  educa- 
tion, and  the  efforts  that  have  been  made  by 
the  Temperance  Societies,  to  break  in  on 
this  ancient  custom  of  drinking,  which,  no 
doubt,  has  flourished  in  these  hills  since  the 
Danes  and  other  Scandinavians  bored  and 
perforated  them  of  old  for  the  ores  of  lead 
and  copper.  To  Betty  Dunster's  remon- 
strances, and  commendations  of  tea,  David 
would  reply — "  Botheration,  Betty,  weiKh  ! 
Dunna  tell  me  about  thy  tea  and  such-like 
pig's-wesh.  It's  all  very  well  for  women  ; 
but  a  man,  Betty,  a  man  mun  ha'  a  sup  of 
real  stingo,  lass.  He  mun  ha'  sumniut  to 
prop  his  ribs  out,  lass,  as  he  delves  througli 
th'  chert  and  tood-stone.  When  tha  weylds 
th'  maundrel  (the  pick),  and  I  wesh  th' 
dishes,  tha  shall  ha'  th'  drink,  my  wench, 
and  I'll  ha'  th'  tea.  Till  then,  prithee  h't 
me  aloon,  and  dunna  bother  me,  for  it's  no 
use.     It  only  kicks  my  monkey  up." 

And  Betty  found  that  it  was  (»f  no  use  ; 
that  it  did  only  kick  his  monkey  uji,  aiid  so 
she  let  him  alone,  except  when  she  could 
drop  in  a  persuasive  woi'd  or  two.  The 
mill-owners  at  Cressbrook  and  Miller's  l)ale 
had  forbidden  any  public-house  nearer  than 
Edale,  and  they  had  more  than  once  called 
the  people  together  to  point  out  to  them  the 
mischiefs  of  drinking,  and  the  advantagr^ 
to  be  derived  from  the  very  savings  ui 
temperance.  But  all  these  measures,  though 
they  had  some  effect  on  the  mill  people,  had 
very  little  on  the  miners.  They  either  sent 
to  Tideswell  or  Edale  for  kegs  of  beer  to 
peddle  at  the  mines,  or  they  went  thither 
themselves  on  receiving  their  wages. 

And  let  no  one  suppose  that  David  Dunster 
was  worse  than  his  fellows  ;  or  that  Betty 
Dunster  thought  her  case  a  particularly  hard 
one.  David  was  "  pretty  much  of  a  "much- 
ness," according  to  the  country  phrase,  with 


THE   MINER'S  DAUGHTERS. 


205 


the  rest  of  his  hard-working  tribe,  which 
vra.9,  and  iilwavH  had  been,  a  hard-drinking 
tribe  ;  and  Betty,  though  she  wi8h(!d  it  dif- 
ferent, did  not  comphiin,  just  because  it  was 
of  no  use,  and  because  she  was  no  worse 
off  than  her  neighbors. 

Often  when  she  went  to  "  carry  in  her 
hose"  to  Ashford,  she  left  the  chihiren  at 
home  by  themselves.  She  had  no  alterna- 
tive. Tht>y  were  there  in  that  solitary  valley 
fir  many  hours  playing  alone.  Ami  to  them 
it  was  not  solitary.  It  was  all  that  they 
know  of  life,  and  that  all  was  very  pleasant 
to  them.  In  spring,  they  hunted  for  birds'- 
nests  in  the  copses,  and  amongst  the  rocks 
and  gray  stones  that  had  fallen  from  them. 
In  the  copses  built  the  blackbirds  and 
thrushes  ;  in  the  rocks  the  tiretails;  and  the 
gray  wagtails  in  the  stones  which  were  so 
exactly  of  their  own  color,  as  to  make  it 
difficult  to  see  them.  In  summer,  they  gath- 
ered flowers  and  berries,  and  in  the  winter 
they  played  at  horses,  kings,  and  shops,  and 
sundry  other  things  in  the  house. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  a  bright  after- 
noon in  autumn,  the  three  children  had 
rambled  down  the  glen,  and  found  a  world 
of  amusement  in  being  teams  of  horses,  in 
making  a  little  mine  at  the  foot  of  a  tall  cliff, 
and  in  marching  for  soldiers,  fur  they  had 
one  day — the  only  time  in  their  lives — ser-n 
Pome  soldiers  go  through  the  village  of  Asli- 
ford,  when  they  had  gcme  there  with  their 
mother,  for  she  now  and  then  took  them 
with  her  when  she  had  something  from  the 
shop  to  carry  besides  her  bundle  of  hose. 
At  length  they  came  to  the  foot  of  an  open 
hill  which  swelled  to  a  considerable  height. 
with  a  round  and  climable  side,  on  which 
grew  a  wilderness  of  bushes  amid  which  lay 
scattered  masses  of  gray  crag.  A  small 
winding  path  went  up  this,  and  they  followed 
ij).  It  was  not  long,  however,  bi'fore  they 
saw  some  things  which  excited  their  eager 
attention.  Little  David,  who  was  the  guide, 
and  assumed  to  himself  much  importance  as 
the  protector  of  his  sisters,  exclaimed,  "  See 
here  I"  and  springing  forward,  plucked  a  fine 
crimson  cluster  of  the  mountain  bramble. 
His  sisters,  on  seeing  this,  rushed  on  with 
like  eagerness.  They  soon  forsook  the  little 
winding  and  craggy  footpath,  and  hurried 
through  sinking  masses  of  moss  and  dry 
grass,  from  bush  to  bush  and  place  to  place. 
They  were  soon  far  up  above  the  valley,  and 
almost  every  step  revealed  to  them  some 
delightful  prize.  The  clusters  of  the  moun- 
tain bramble,  resembling  mulberries,  and 
known  only  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  hills, 
were  abundant  and  were  rapidly  devoured. 
The  dewberry  was  as  eagerly  gathered — its 
large,  purple  fruit  passing  with  them  for 
blackberries.  In  their  hands  were  soon  seen 
posies  of  the  lovely  grass  of  Parnassus,  the 
mountain  cistus,  and  the  bright  blue  gera- 
nium. 


Higher  and  higher  the  little  group  as- 
cended in  this  quest,  till  th.;  sigiit  of  the 
widi%  naked  hills,  and  the  liawks  circling 
round  the  lofty  tower-like  crags  ..v(>r  th.'ir 
heads,  made  them  feel  serious  and  somewliat 
afraid. 

"Where  are  we?"  asked  Jane,  the  rider 
sister.     "  Arn't  we  a  long  way  from  liom  ?" 

"  Let  us  go  hom,"  said  "little  Nancy. 
"  I'm  afeerd  here  ;"  clutching  hold  of  Jane's 
frock. 

"  Pho,  nonsense  !"  said  David  "  what  are 
you  afeerd  on  ?  I'll  tak  care  on  you,  niver 
fear." 

And  with  this  he  assumed  a  bold  and  de- 
fying aspect,  and  said,  "  Come  along;  there 
are  nests  in  tii'  hazzles  up  yonder." 

He  began  to  mount  again,  but  the  two 
girls  hung  back  and  said.  "Nay,  David, 
dunna  go  higiicr;  wo  are  both  afceVd  ;"  and 
Jatie  added,  -  It's  a  long  wee  from  hom,  I'm 
sure." 

"  And  those  birds  screechen'  so  up  there; 
I  darna  go  up,"  ul  n-d  little  Nancy.  Tliey 
were  the  hawks  tiiai  she  moant,  which  hov- 
ered whimpering  and  screaming  al)out  tlie 
highest  cliffs.  David  called  them  little  onw- 
ards, but  Ijegan  to  descoml,  and,  presently, 
seeking  for  berries  and  flowers  as  tiiey  de- 
scended, they  regained  the  little  winding, 
craggy  road,  and,  while  they  were  calling  to 
each  other,  discovered  a  remarkal/le  echo  on 
the  opposite  hill  suU\  On  this,  they  shouted 
to  it,  and  laughed,  and  were  half  inghtened 
when  it  laughed  and  shouted  again.  Little 
Nancy  said  it  must  be  an  old  man  in  the  in- 
side of  the  mountain  ;  at  whicli  they  were 
all  really  afraid,  though  Da*-id  put  on  a  big 
look  and  said,  "  Nonsense !  u  was  nothing 
at  all."  liut  Jane  asked  how  nothing  at 
all  could  shout  and  laugh  as  it  did?  and  on 
this  little  Nancy  plucked  her  again  liy  tlie 
frock,  and  said  in  turn,  "  Oh,  dear,  let's  go 
hom  !" 

But  at  this  David  gave  a  wild  whoop  to 
frigliten  them,  and  wiien  the  hill  whooped 
again,  and  the  sisters  began  to  run,  he  burst 
into  laughter,  and  the  strange  spectral  Hal 
ha!  ha!  that  ran  along  the  inside  of  tiie  hill 
as  it  were,  completed  their  fear,  and  they 
stopped  their  ears  with  their  hands  and 
scuttled  away  down  the  hill.  But  now 
David  seized  them,  and  pulling  their  hands 
down  from  their  iieads,  ho  said,  "See  here! 
what  a  nice  place  with  the  stones  sticking  out 
like  seats.  Wh}-,  it's  like  a  little  house  ;  let 
us  stay  and  play  a  bit  here."  It  was  a  little 
hollow  in  the  hill  sidi:  surrounded  by  project- 
ing stones  like  an  amphitheatre.  Tlie  sisters 
were  still  afraid,  but  the  sight  of  tiiis  little 
hollow  with  its  seats  of  crag  had  such  a 
charm  for  them  that  they  promisecl  David 
they  would  stop  a  while,  if  lie  would  prom- 
ise not  to  shout  and  awake  theeclio.  David 
readily  [)romised  this,  and  so  they  sat  down, 
David  proposed  to  keep  a,  school,  and  cut  a 


206 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES. 


hazel  wand  from  a  bush  and  began  to  lord  it 
over  his  two  sclmlars  in  a  Tery  pompous 
manner.  The  two  sisters  pretended  to  be 
much  afraid,  and  to  read  very  diligently  on 
pieces  of  flat  stone  which  they  had  picked 
up.  And  then  David  became  a  serjeant  and 
was  drilling  them  for  soldiers,  and  stuck 
pieces  of  fern  into  their  hair  for  cockades. 
And  then,  soon  after,  they  were  sheep,  and 
he  was  the  shepherd  ;  and  he  was  catching 
his  flock  and  going  to  shear  them,  and  made 
so  much  noise  that  Jane  cried,  "Hold! 
there's  the  echo  mocking  us." 

At  t'liis  they  all  were  still.  But  David 
said,  "  Pho !  never  mind  the  echo;  I  must 
shear  ni}^  shet'p  ;"  but  just  as  he  was  seizing 
little  Nancy  to  pretend  to  shear  her  with  a 
piece  of  stick,  Jane  cried  out,  "'Look!  look! 
Iiow  black  it  is  coming  down  the  valley 
there  I  There's  going  to  be  a  dreadful  starm  ; 
let  us  iiurry  hom  !" 

David  and  Nancy  both  looked  up,  and 
agreed  to  run  as  fast  down  the  hill  as  they 
could.  But  the  next  moment  the  driving 
storm  swept  over  the  hill,  and  the  whole 
valley  was  hid  in  it.  The  three  children 
siill  hurried  on,  but  it  became  quite  dark, 
and  they  soon  lost  the  track,  and  were 
tossed  about  by  the  wind,  so  that  they  had 
difficulty  to  keep  on  their  legs.  Little  Nancy 
began  to  cry,  and  the  three  taking  hold  of 
each  other  endeavored  in  silence  to  make 
their  way  homewards.  But  presently  they 
all  stumbled  over  a  large  stone,  and  fell 
Some  distance  down  the  hill.  They  were 
not  hurt,  but  much  frightened,  for  they  now 
remembered  the  precipices,  and  were  afraid 
every  minute  of  going  over  them.  They 
now  strove  to  find  the  track  by  going  up 
again,  but  they  could  not  find  it  anywhere. 
Sometimes  they  went  upwards  till  they 
thought  they  were  quite  too  far,  and  then 
they  went  downwards  till  they  were  com- 
pletely bewildered  ;  and  then,  like  the  Babes 
in  the  Wood,  "  They  sate  them  down  and 
cried." 

But  ere  they  had  sate  long,  they  heard 
footsteps,  and  listened.  They  certainly 
heard  them  and  shouted,  but  there  was  no 
answer.  David  shouted,  "Help!  fayther  ! 
mother  !  help !"  but  there  was  no  answer. 
The  wind  swept  fiercely  by ;  the  hawks 
■whimpered  from  the  high  crags,  lost  in  the 
darkness  of  the  storm  ;  and  the  rain  fell, 
driving  along  icy  cold.  Presently,  there  was 
a  gleam  of  light  through  the  clouds  ;  the 
hill-side  became  visible,  and  through  the 
haze  they  saw  a  tall  figure  as  of  an  old  man 
ascending  the  hill.  He  appeared  to  carry 
two  loads  slung  from  his  shoulders  by  a 
strap  ;  a  box  hanging  before,  and  a  bag 
hanging  at  his  back.  He  wound  up  the  hill 
slowly  and  wearily,  and  presently  he  stop- 
ped and  relieving  himself  of  his  load,  seated 
himself  on  a  piece  of  crag  to  rest.  Again 
David  shouted,  but  there  still  was  no  answer. 


The  old  man  sate  as  if  no  shout  had  been 
heard — immoveable. 

"  It  is  a  man,"  said  David,  "and  I  will 
mak  him  hear ;"  and  with  that  he  shouted 
once  more  with  all  his  might.  But  the  old 
man  made  no  sign  of  recognition.  He  did 
not  even  turn  his  head,  but  he  took  off  his 
hat  and  began  to  wipe  his  brow  as  if  warm 
with  the  ascent. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?"  said  David  in  aston- 
ishment. "It  is  a  man,  that's  sartain.  I'll 
run  and  see." 

"  Nay,  nay  !"  shrieked  the  sisters. 
"  Don't,  David  !  don't !  It's  perhaps  the 
old  man  out  of  the  mountain  that's  been 
mocking  us.  Perhaps,"  added  Jane,  "  he 
only  comes  out  in  storms  and  darkness." 

"Stuff!"  said  David,  "an  echo  isn't  a 
man  ;  it's  only  our  own  voices.  I'll  see  who 
it  is  ;"  and  away  he  darted,  spite  of  viit  poor 
girl's  crying  in  terror,  "  Don't ;  don't,  D  vvid  ! 
Oh,  don't." 

But  David  was  gone.  He  was  not  long  in 
reaching  the  old  man,  who  sate  on  his  stone 
breathing  hard,  as  if  out  of  breath  with  his 
ascent,  but  not  appearing  to  perceive  Davie'' 
approach.  The  rain  and  the  wind  drov- 
fiercely  upon  him,  but  he  did  not  seem  t( 
mind  it.  David  was  half  afraid  to  approach 
close  to  him,  but  he  called  out,  "Help; 
help,  mester !"  The  old  man  remained  as 
unconscious  of  his  presence.  "  Ilillo  !"  cried 
David  again.  "  Can  you  tell  us  the  way 
down,  mester?"  There  was  no  answer,  and 
David  was  beginning  to  feel  a  shudder  of 
terror  run  through  every  limb,  when  the 
clouds  cleared  considera))iy,  and  he  suddenly 
exclaimed,  "Why  it's  old  Tobias  Turton  of 
top  of  Edale,and  he's  as  deaf  as  a  door  nail !" 

In  an  instant,  David  was  at  his  side  ; 
seized  his  coat  to  make  him  aware  of  his 
presence  ;  and,  on  the  old  man  perceiving 
him,  shouted  in  his  ear,  "  Which  is  the  way 
down  here,  Mester  Turton?  Where's  the 
track  ?" 

"  Down  ?  Weighs  o'  the  baj'k  ?"  said  the 
old  man  ;  "  ay,  my  lad,  I  was  fain  to  sit 
down  ;  it  does  weigh  o'  th'  back,  sure 
enough." 

"  Where's  the  foot-track  ?"  shouted  David, 
again. 

"  Th'  foot-track  ?  Why,  what  art  ta  doing 
here,  my  lad,  in  such  a  starm  ?  Isn't  it 
David  Dunster's  lad  ?" 

David  nodded.  "  Why  the  track's  here  ! 
see  ;"  and  the  old  man  stamped  his  foot. 
"  Get  down  hom,  my  lad,  as  fast  as  tliou  can. 
What  dun  they  do  letting  thee  be  upon  th' 
hills  in  such  a  dee  as  this?" 

David  nodded  his  thanks,  and  turned  to 
descend  the  track,  while  the  old  man,  -adjust- 
ing his  burden  again,  silently  and  wearily 
recommenced  his  way  upwards. 

David  shouted  to  his  sisters  as  he  de- 
scended, and  they  quickly  replied.  He 
called  to  them  to  come  towards  him,  as  he 


THE   MINER'S  DAUGHTERS. 


207 


was  on  the  track,  and  was  afraid  to  quit  it 
again.  They  endeavored  to  do  this  ;  but  the 
darkness  was  now  redoubled,  and  the  wind 
and  rain  became  more  furious  than  ever. 
The  two  sisters  were  soon  bewildered 
amongst  the  bushes,  and  David,  who  kept 
calling  to  them  at  intervals  to  direct  their 
course  towards  him  soon  heard  them  crying 
bitterly.  At  this,  he  forgot  the  necessity  of 
keeping  the  track,  and  darting  towards 
them,  soon  found  them  by  continuing  to 
call  to  them,  and  took  their  hands  to  lead 
them  to  the  track.  But  they  were  now 
drenched  thrdugh  with  the  rain,  and  shivered 
with  cold  and  fear.  David,  with  a  stout 
heart,  endeavored  to  cheer  them.  He  told 
them  the  track  was  close  by,  and  that  they 
would  soon  be  at  home.  But  though  the 
track  was  not  ten  yards  off,  somehow  they 
did  not  liiid  it.  Bushes  and  projecting  rocks 
turned  them  out  of  their  course  ;  and  owing 
to  the  confusion  caused  by  the  wind,  the 
darkness,  and  their  terror,  they  searched  in 
vain  for  the  track.  Sometimes  they  thought 
tlipy  had  found  it,  and  went  on  a  few  paces, 
only  to  stumble  over  loose  stones,  or  get 
entangled  in  the  bushes. 

It  was  now  absolutely  becoming  night. 
Their  terrors  increased  greatly.  They 
shouted  and  cried  aloud,  in  the  hope  of 
making  their  parents  hear  them.  They  felt 
sure  that  both  father  and  mother  must  be 
come  home  ;  and  as  sure  that  they  would  be 
hunting  for  them.  But  they  did  not  reHect 
that  their  parents  could  not  tell  in  what 
direction  they  had  gone.  Both  father  and 
mother  were  come  home,  and  the  mother 
had  instantly  rushed  out  to  try  to  find  them, 
on  perceiving  that  they  were  not  in  the 
house.  She  had  hurried  to  and  fro,  and 
called — not  at  first  supposing  they  would 
be  far.  But  when  she  heard  nothing  of 
them,  she  ran  in,  and  begged  of  her  husband 
t)  join  in  the  search.  But  at  first  David 
Dunster  would  do  nothing.  He  was  angry 
at  them  for  going  awaj'  from  the  house,  and 
said  he  was  fbo  tired  to  go  on  a  wild  goose 
chase  through  the  plantations  after  them. 
"  They  are  i'  th'  plantations,"  said  he : 
"  they  are  sheltering  there  somewhere.  Let 
them  alone,  and  they'll  come  home,  with  a 
good  long  tail  behind  them." 

With  this  piece  of  a  child's  song  of  sheep, 
David  sat  down  to  his  supper,  and  Betty 
Dunster  hurried  up  the  valley,  shouting — 
'•  Children,  where  are  you  ?  David  !  Jane  ! 
Xancy  !  Avhere  are  you  ?" 

When  she  heard  nothing  of  them,  she 
hurried  still  more  wildly  up  the  hill  towards 
the  village.  When  she  arrived  there — the 
distance  of  a  mile — she  inquired  from  house 
to  house,  but  no  one  had  seen  anything  of 
them.  It  was  clear  they  had  not  been  in 
that  direction.  An  alarm  was  thus  created 
ia  the  village  ;  and  several  young  men  sot 
out  to  join  Mrs.  Dunster  in  the  quest.   They 


again  descended  the  valley  towards  Dun- 
ster's  house,  shouting  every  now  and  then, 
and  listening.  The  night  was  pitch  dark 
and  the  rain  fell  heavily  ;  but  the  wind  had 
considerably  abated,  and  once  they  thought 
they  heard  a  faint  cry  in  answer  to  their 
call,  far  down  the  valley.  They  were  ri'dit ; 
the  children  had  heard  the  shouting,  and 
had  replied  to  it.  But  they  were  far  off. 
The  young  men  shouted  again,  but  there 
was  no  answer ;  and  after  shouting  once 
more  without  success,  they  hastened  on. 
When  they  reached  David  Dunster's  house, 
they  found  the  door  open,  and  no  one  within. 
They  knew  that  David  had  set  off  in  quest 
of  the  children  himself,  and  they  determined 
to  descend  the  valley.  The  distracted  mo- 
ther went  with  them,  crying  silently  to  her- 
self, and  praying  inwardly,  and  every  now 
and  then  trying  to  shout.  But  the  young 
men  raised  their  strong  voices  above  hers, 
and  made  the  cliffs  echo  with  their  appeals. 

Anon  a  voice  answered  them  down  the 
valley.  They  ran  on  as  well  as  the  dark- 
ness would  let  them,  and  soon  found  that  it 
was  David  Dunster,  who  had  been  in  the 
plantations  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley  ; 
but  hearing  nothing  of  the  lost  children, 
now  joined  them.  He  said  he  had  heard 
the  cry  from  the  hill-side  farther  down,  that 
answered  to  their  shouts  ;  and  he  was  sure 
that  it  was  his  boy  David's  voice.  But  ho 
had  shouted  again,  and  there  had  been  no 
answer  but  a  wild  scream  as  of  terror,  that 
made  his  blood  run  cold. 

"  0  God  !"  exclaimed  the  distracted  mo- 
ther, "  what  can  it  be  ?  David  !  David  ! 
Jane!  Nancy  1" 

There  was  no  answer.  The  young  men 
bade  Betty  Dunster  to  contain  herself,  and 
they  would  find  the  children  before  they 
went  home  again.  All  held  on  down  the 
valle}',  and  in  the  direction  whence  the 
voice  came.  Many  times  did  the  young 
men  and  the  now  strongly  agitated  father 
shout  and  listen.  At  length  they  seemed 
to  hear  voices  of  weeping  and  moaning. 
They  listened — they  were  sure  they  heard 
a  lamenting — it  could  only  be  tin;  cliildren. 
But  why  then  did  they  not  answer?  On 
struggled  the  men,  and  Mrs.  Dunster  fol- 
lowed wildly  aft'T.  Now,  again,  they  stood 
and  shouted,  and  a  kind  of  terrified  scream 
followed  the  shout. 

'■  God  in  heaven  1"  exclaimed  the  mother ; 
"  what  is  it?  There  is  something  dreadful. 
My  children !  my  children  !  where  are  you  ?" 

"  Be  silent,  pray  do,  Mrs.  Dunster,"  said 
one  of  the  young  men,  "  or  we  cannot  catch 
the  sounds  so  as  to  follow  them."  They 
again  listened,  and  the  wailings  of  thi 
cliildren  were  plainly  heard.  The  whole 
party  pushed  forward  over  stock  and  stone 
up  the  hill.  They  called  again,  and  tnere 
was  a  cry  of  "  Here !  here  !  fayther  I  mother ! 
where  are  you  ?" 


208 


DICKEXS'    NEW    STORIES. 


In  a  few  mometts  more  the  whole  party 
had  reached  the  cliildren,  who  stood 
drenched  with  rain,  and  trembling  violently, 
under  a  cliff  that  gave  no  shelter,  but  was 
exposed  espcciall}'  to  the  wind  and  rain. 

"  0  Christ !  My  children  !"  cried  the  mo- 
ther wildly,  struggling  forwards  and  clasp- 
ing one  in  her  arms.  "  Nancy  !  Jane  !  But 
whore  is  David  ?  David  !  David  !  Oh,  where 
is  David  ?   Where  is  your  brother  ?" 

The  whole  party  was  startled  at  not  see- 
ing the  boy,  and  joined  in  a  simultaneous 
*'  Where  is  he  ?    Where  is  your  brother?" 

The  two  children  only  wept  and  trem- 
bled more  violently,  and  burst  into  loud 
crying. 

"  Silence  !"  shouted  the  father.  "  Where 
is  David,  I  tell  ye  ?  Is  he  lost?  David,  lad, 
where  ar  ta  ?" 

All  listened,  but  there  was  no  answer  but 
the  renewed  crying  of  the  two  girls. 
,  "Where    is   the   lad,   then?"    thundered 
forth  the  father  with  a  terrible  oath. 

The  two  terrified  children  cried,  "Oh, 
down  there  !    down  there  !" 

"Down  where?  Oh  God!"  exclaimed 
one  of  the  young  men  ;  '"  why  it's  a  preci- 
pice !    Down  there  !" 

At  this  dreadful  intelligence  the  mother 
gave  a  wild  shriek,  and  fell  senseless  on  the 
ground.  The  young  men  caught  her,  and 
dragged  her  back  from  the  edge  of  the  pre- 
cipice. The  father  in  the  same  moment, 
furious  at  what  he  heard,  seized  the  younger 
child  that  happened  to  be  near  him,  and 
sliaking  it  violently,  swore  he  would  fling  it 
down  after  the  lad. 

lie  was  angry  with  the  poor  children,  as 
if  they  had  caused  the  destruction  of  his 
boy.  The  young  men  seized  him,  and  bade 
him  think  what  he  was  about;  but  the  man 
believing  his  boy  had  fallen  down  the  pre- 
cipice, was  like  a  madman.  lie  kicked  at 
his  wife  as  she  lay  on  the  ground,  as  if  she 
were  guilty  of  this  calamity  by  leaving  the 
children  at  home.  He  was  furious  against 
the  poor  girls,  as  if  they  had  led  their  bro- 
tJier  into  danger.  In  his  violent  rage  he 
was  a  perfect  maniac,  and  the  young  men, 
pushing  him  away,  cried  shame  on  him.  In 
a  while,  the  desperate  man,  torn  by  a  hur- 
ricane of  passion,  sate  himself  down  on  a 
crag,  and  burst  into  a  tempest  of  tears,  and 
struck  his  head  violently  with  his  clenched 
tists,  and  cursed  himself  and  everybody.  It 
was  a  dreadful  scene. 

Meantime,  some  of  the  young  men  had 
gone  down  below  the  precipice  on  which 
the  children  had  stood,  and,  feeling  amongst 
the  loose  stones,  had  found  the  body  of  poor 
little  David.     He  was  truly  dead  ! 

When  he  had  heard  the  shout  of  his 
father,  or  of  the  young  men,  he  had  given 
one  loud  shout  in  answer,  and  saying, 
'*  Come  on  !  never  fear  now  1"  sprang  for- 
ward, and  was  over  the  precipice  in   the 


dark,  and  flew  down  and  was  dashed  to 
pieces.  Ilis  sisters  heard  a  rush,  a  faint 
shriek,  and  suddenly  stopping,  escaped  tho 
destruction  that  poor  David  had  found. 


CHAPTER  II. 


MILL    LIFE 


We  must  pass  over  the  painful  and  dread- 
ful particulars  of  that  night,  and  of  a  long 
time  to  come ;  the  maniacal  rage  of  the 
father,  the  shattered  heart  and  feelings  of 
the  mother,  the  dreadful  state  of  the  two  re- 
maining children,  to  whom  their  brother 
was  one  of  the  most  precious  objects  in  a 
world  which,  like  theirs,  contained  so  few. 
One  moment  to  have  seen  him  full  of  life, 
and  fun,  and  bravado,  and  almost  the  next  a 
lifeless  and  battered  corpse,  was  something 
too  strange  and  terrible  to  be  soon  sur- 
mounted. But  this  was  wofully  aggravated 
by  the  cruel  anger  of  their  father,  who  con- 
tinued to  regard  them  as  guilty  of  the  death 
of  his  favorite  boy.  He  seemed  to  take  no 
pleasure  in  them.  He  never  spoke  to  them 
but  to  scold  them.  He  drank  more  deeply 
than  ever,  and  came  home  lat'>3r  ;  and  wlien 
there  was  sullen  and  morose.  When  their 
mother,  who  suffered  severely,  but  still 
plodded  on  with  all  her  duties,  said,  "  David, 
they  are  thy  children  too  ;"  he  would  reply 
savagely,  "  Hod  thy  tongue  !  What's  a  pack 
o'  Avenches  to  my  lad  ?" 

What  tended  to  render  the  miner  more 
hard  towards  the  two  girls  was  a  circum- 
stance which  Avould  have  awakened  a  better 
feeling  in  a  softer  father's  heart.  Nancy, 
the  younger  girl,  since  the  dreadful  catas- 
trophe, had  seemed  to  grow  gradually  dull 
and  defective  in  her  intellect ;  she  had  a  slow 
and  somewhat  idiotic  air  and  manner.  Her 
mother  perceived  it,  and  was  struck  with 
consternation  by  it.  She  tried  to  rouse  her, 
but  in  vain.  She  could  not  perform  her 
ordinary  reading  and  spelling  lessons.  She 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  what  was  already 
learned.  She  appeared  to  have  a  difficulty 
in  moving  her  legs,  and  carried  her  hands 
as  if  she  had  suffered  a  partial  paralysis. 
Jane,  her  sister,  was  dreadfully  distressed 
at  it,  and  she  and  her  mother  wept  many 
bitter  tears  over  her.  One  day,  in  the  fol- 
lowing spring,  they  took  her  with  them  to 
Ashford,  and  consulted  the  doctor  there. 
On  examining  her,  and  hearing  fully  vrhat 
had  taken  place  at  the  time  of  the  brother's 
death — the  fact  of  which  he  well  knew,  for 
it,  of  course,  was  known  to  the  whole  coun- 
try round — he  shook  his  head,  and  said  ho 
was  afraid  they  must  make  up  their  minds 
to  a  sad  case  ;  that  the  terrors  of  that  night 
had  affected  her  brain,  and  that,  through  it, 
the  whole  nervous  system  had  suffered,  and 


THE  MINER'S  DAUGHTERS. 


209 


was  continuing  to  suffer  the  most  melancholy 
effects.  The  only  thing,  he  thought,  in  her 
favor  was  her  youth  ;  and  added,  that  it 
might  have  a  good  effect  if  they  could  leave 
the  place  where  she  had  undergone  such  a 
terrible  shock.  But  whether  they  did  or 
not,  kindness  and  soothing  attentions  to  her 
would  do  more  than  anything  else. 

Mrs.  Dunster  and  little  Jane  returned 
home  with  heavy  hearts.  The  doctor's 
opinion  had  only  confirmed  their  fears  ;  for 
Jane,  though  but  a  child,  had  quickness 
and  affection  for  her  sister  enough  to  make 
her  comprehend  the  awful  nature  of  poor 
Nancy's  condition.  Mrs.  Dunster  told  her 
husband  the  doctor's  words,  for  she  thought 
they  would  awaken  some  tenderness  in  him 
towards  the  unfortunate  child.  But  he 
said,  "  That's  just  what  I  expected.  Hou'U 
grow  soft,  and  then  who's  to  maintain  her  ? 
Hou  mun  goo  to  the  workhouse." 

With  that  he  took  his  maundrel  and  went 
off  to   his  work.     Instead  of  softening  his 
nature,  this    intelligence    seemed  only   to 
harden   and  brutalise   it.     He  drank  now 
more  and  more.     But  all  that  summer  the 
mother  and  Jane  did   all   that   they  could 
think  of  to  restore  the  health  and  mind  of 
poor   Nancy.      Every   morning,  when  the 
father  was  gone  to  work,  Jane  went  to  a 
spring  up  in  the  opposite  wood,  famed  for 
the  coldness  and  sweetness  of  its  waters. 
On  this  account  the  proprietors  of  the  mills 
at  Cressbrook  had  put  down  a  large  trough 
there  under  the  spreading   trees,  and  the 
people  fetched  the  water  even  from  the  vil- 
lage.    Hence  Jane  brought,  at  many  jour- 
neys, this  cold,  delicious  water  to  bathe  her 
sister  in  ;  they  then  rubbed  her  warm  with 
cloths,  and  gave  her  new  milk  for  her  break- 
fast.    Her  lessons  were  not  left  off,  lest  the 
mind   should   sink   into  fatuity,  but   were 
made  as  easy  as  possible.     Jane  continued 
to  talk  to  her,  and  laugh  with  her,  as  if  no- 
thing was  amiss,  though  she  did  it  with  a 
heavy  heart,  and  she  engaged  her  to  weed 
and  hoe  with  her  in  their  little  garden.    She 
did  not  dare  to  lead  her  far  out  into  the  val- 
ley, lest  it  might  excite  her  memory  of  the 
past  fearful   time,   but  she   gathered   her 
flowers,  and  continued  to  play  with  her  at 
all   their  accustomed   sports,   of    building 
houses  with  pieces  of  pots  and  stones,  and 
imagining  gardens  and  parks.    The  anxious 
mother,  when  some  weeks  were  gone  by, 
fancied  that  there  was  really  some  improve- 
ment.    The  cold  bathing   seemed  to  have 
strengthened  the   system :    the   poor  child 
walked,  and  bore  herself  with  more  freedom 
and  iirmness.    She  became  ardently  fond  of 
being  with  her  sister,  and  attentive  to  her 
directions.    But  there  was  a  dull  cloud  over 
her  intellect,  and  a  vacancy  in  her  eyes  and 
features.   She  was  quiet,  easily  pleased,  but 
seemed  to  have  little  volition  of  her  own. 
Mrs.  Dunster  thought  that  if  they  could  but 
(14) 


get  her  away  from  that  spot,  it  might  rouse 
her  mind  from  its  sleep.  But  perhaps  the 
sleep  was  better  than  the  awaking  might  be  ; 
however,  the  removal  came,  though  in  a 
more  awful  way  than  was  looked  for.  The 
miner,  who  had  continued  to  drink  more  and 
more,  and  seemed  to  have  ahnost  estnmged 
himself  from  his  home,  staying  awiiy  in  hid 
drinking  bouts  for  a  week  or  more  together, 
was  one  day  blasting  a  rock  in  tlio  mine, 
and  being  half-stupitied  with  beer,  did  not 
take  care  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  ex 
plosion,  was  struck  with  a  piece  of  the  flying 
stone,  and  killed  on  the  spot. 

The  poor  widow  and  her  children  were 
now  obliged  to  remove  from  under  Ward- 
low-Cop.  The  place  had  been  a  sad  one  to 
her :  the  death  of  her  husband,  though  he 
had  been  latterly  far  from  a  good  one,  and 
had  left  her  with  tlie  children  in  deep  ])ov- 
erty,  was  a  fresh  source  of  severe  grief  to 
her.  Her  religious  mind  was  struck  down 
with  a  weight  of  melancholy  by  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  life  he  had  led,  and  the  sudden 
way  in  which  he  had  been  summoned  into 
eternity.  When  she  looked  forward  what  a 
prospect  was  there  for  her  children  !  it  was 
impossible  for  her  to  maintain  them  from 
her  small  earnings,  and  as  to  Nancy,  would 
she  ever  be  able  to  earn  her  own  bread,  and 
protect  herself  in  the  world  ? 

It  was  amid  such  reflections  that  Mrs. 
Dunster  quitted  this  deep,  solitary,  and,  to 
her,  fatal  valley,  and  took  up  her  abode  in 
the  village  of  Cressbrook.  Here  she  had 
one  small  room,  and  by  her  own  labors, 
and  some  aid  from  the  parLsh,  she  managed 
to  support  herself  and  the  children,  ior 
seven  years  she  continued  her  laborious 
life,  assisted  by  the  labor  of  the  two 
daughters,  who  also  seamed  stockings,  and 
in  the  evenings  were  instructed  by  her. 
Her  girls  were  now  thirteen  and  Hfteen 
years  of  age :  Jane  was  a  tall  and  very 
pretty  girl  of  her  years  ;  she  was  active, 
industrious,  and  sweetrtempered :  her  con- 
stant affection  for  poor  Nancy  was  some- 
thing as  admirable  as  it  was  singular. 
Nancy  had  now  confirmed  good  health,  but 
it  had  affected  her  mother  to  perceive  that, 
since  the  catastroj)he  of  hor  brother's  death, 
and  the  cruel  treatment  of  her  father  at 
that  time,  she  had  never  grown  in  any  de- 
gree as  she  ought ;  she  was  short,  stout, 
and  of  a  pale  and  very  plain  countenance 
It  could  not  be  now  said  that  she  was  de- 
ficient in  mind,  Itut  she  was  slow  in  it« 
operations.  She  displayed,  indeed,  a  more 
than  ordinary  depth  of  reflection,  and  a 
shrewdness  of  observation,  but  the  evi- 
dences of  this  came  forth  in  a  very  (juiet 
way,  and  were  observable  only  to  her  mo 
ther  and  sister.  To  all  besides  she  was 
extremely  reserved:  she  was  timid  to  ex- 
cess, and  shrunk  from  public  notice  into 
the  society  of  her  mother  and  aister.    There 


216 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES. 


•was  a  feeling  abroad  in  the  neighborhood 
that  she  was  "  not  quite  right,"  but  the  few 
who  were  more  discerning,  shook  their 
heads,  and  observed,  "Right  she  was  not, 
poor  thing,  but  it  was  not  want  of  sense  ; 
ehe  had  more  of  that  than  most." 

And  such  was  the  opinion  of  her  mother 
and  sister.  They  perceived  that  Nancy  had 
received  a  shock  of  which  slie  must  bear 
the  effects  through  life.  Circumstances 
might  bring  her  feeble  but  sensitive  nerves 
much  misery.  She  required  to  be  guarded 
and  sheltered  from  the  rudeness  of  the 
world,  and  the  mother  trembled  to  think 
how  much  she  might  be  exposed  to  them. 
But  in  everything  that  related  to  sound 
iudgniont,  they  knew  that  she  surpassed 
not  only  them,  but  any  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, if  any  difficulty  had  to  be  decided, 
it  was  Nancy  who  pondered  on  it,  and  per- 
haps at  some  moment  when  least  expected, 
pronounced  an  opinion  that  might  be  taken 
as  confidently  as  an  oracle. 

The  affection  of  the  two  sisters  was  some- 
thing beyond  the  ties  of  this  world.  Jane 
had  watched  and  attended  to  her  from  the 
time  of  her  constitutional  injury  with  a 
love  that  never  seemed  to  know  a  moment's 
weariness  or  change  ;  and  the  affection 
which  Nancy  evinced  for  her  was  equally 
intense  and  affecting.  She  seemed  to  hang 
cm  her  society  for  her  very  life.  Jane  felt 
this,  and  vowed  that  they  would  never  quit 
one  another.  The  mother  sighed.  How 
many  things,  she  thought  might  tear  asun- 
der that  beautiful  resolve. 

But  now  they  were  of  an  age  to  obtain 
work  in  the  mill.  Indeed,  Jane  could  have 
had  employment  there  long  before,  but  she 
would  not  quit  her  sister  till  she  could  go 
with  her — and  now  there  they  went.  The 
proprietor,  who  knew  the  case  fixmiliarly, 
80  ordered  it  that  the  two  sisters  should 
work  near  each  other ;  and  that  poor  Nancy 
should  be  as  little  exposed  to  the  rudeness 
of  the  work-people  as  possible.  But  at 
first  so  slow  and  awkward  were  Nancy's 
endeavors,  and  such  an  effect  had  it  on  her 
frame  that  it  was  feared  she  must  give  it 
up.  This  would  have  been  a  terrible  ca- 
lamity ;  and  the  tears  of  the  two  sisters, 
and  the  benevolence  of  the  employer,  ena- 
bled Nancy  to  pass  through  this  severe  ordeal. 
In  a  while  she  acquired  sufficient  dexterity, 
and  thenceforward  went  through  her  work 
with  great  accuracy  and  perseverance.  As 
far  as  any  intercourse  with  the  work-people 
was  concerned,  she  might  be  said  to  be 
dumb.  Scarcely  ever  did  she  exchange  a 
word  with  any  one,  but  she  returned  kind 
nods  and  smiles ;  and  every  morning  and 
evening  and  at  dinner-time,  the  two  sisters 
might  be  seen  going  to  and  fro,  side  by 
side, — Jane  often  talking  with  some  of 
them  ;  the  little,  odd-looking  sister  walking 
eilent  and  Listening. 


Five  more  years  and  Jane  was  a  young 
woman.  Amid  her  companions,  who  were 
few  of  them  above  the  middle  size,  she  had 
a  tall  and  striking  appearance.  Her  father 
had  been  a  remarkably  tall  and  strong  man, 
and  she  possessed  something  of  his  stature, 
though  none  of  his  irritable  disposition. 
She  was  extremely  pretty,  of  a  blooming 
fresh  complexion,  and  graceful  form.  She 
was  remarkable  for  the  sweetness  of  her 
expression,  which  was  the  index  of  her 
disposition.  By  her  side  still  went  that 
odd,  broad-built,  but  still  pale  and  little 
sister.  Jane  was  extremely  admired  by  tiie 
young  men  of  the  neighborhood,  and  had 
already  many  offers,  but  she  listened  to 
none.  "  Where  I  go  must  Nancy  go,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "and  of  whom  can  I  be 
sure  ?" 

Of  Nancy  no  one  took  notice.  Her  pale, 
somewhat  large  features,  her  thoughtful 
silent  look,  and  her  short,  stout  figure,  | 
gave  you  an  idea  of  a  dwarf,  though  she  1 
could  not  strictly  be  called  one.  None  could 
think  of  Nancy  as  a  wife, — where  Jane 
went  she  must  go ;  the  two  clung  together 
with  one  heart  and  soul.  The  blow  which 
deprived  them  of  their  brother  seemed  to 
bind  them  inseparably  together. 

Mrs.  Dunster,  besides  her  seaming,  at 
which,  in  truth,  she  earned  a  miseral/le 
sum,  had  now  for  some  years  been  the  post- 
woman  from  the  village  to  the  Bull's  Head, 
where  the  mail,  going  on  to  Tideswell.  left 
the  letter-bag.  Thither  and  back,  wet  or  dry, 
summer  or  winter,  she  went  every  day,  the 
year  round.  With  her  earnings,  and  those  of 
the  girls,  she  kept  a  neat,  small  cottage  ;  and 
the  world  went  well  with  them,  as  the  world 
goes  on  the  average  with  the  poor.  Cramps 
and  rheumatisms  she  began  to  feel  sensibly 
from  so  much  exposure  to  rain  and  cold  ; 
but  the  never-varying  and  firm  affection  of 
her  two  children  was  a  balm  in  her  cup  which 
made  her  contented  with  everything  else. 

AVhen  Jane  was  about  two-and-twenty, 
poor  Mrs.  Dunster,  seized  with  rheumatic 
fever,  died.  On  her  death-bed  she  said  to 
Jane,  "  Thou  will  never  desert  poor  Nancy  ; 
and  that's  my  comfort.  God  has  been  good 
to  me.  After  all  my  trouble,  he  has  given 
me  this  faith,  that  come  weal  come  woe,  so 
long  as  thou  has  a  home,  Nancy  will 
never  want  one.  God  bless  thee  for  it !  God 
bless  you  both ;  and  he  will  bless  you  ?" 
So  saying,  Betty  Dunster  breathed  her  last. 

The  events  immediately  following  her 
death  did  not  seem  to  bear  out  her  dying 
faith  ;  for  the  two  poor  girls  were  obliged 
to  give  up  their  cottage.  There  was  h  want 
of  cottages.  Not  half  of  the  work-people 
could  be  entertained  in  this  village,  they 
went  to  and  fro  tor  many  miles  Jane  and 
Nancy  were  now  obliged  to  do  the  same. 
Their  cottage  was  wanted  for  an  overlooker, 
and  they  removed  to  Tideswell,  three  miles 


THE   MIXER'S  DAUGHTERS. 


211 


off.  Thoy  had  thus  six  miles  a  day  to  ^valk, 
besides  standing  at  their  work  ;  but  they 
were  younj;,  and  had  companions.  In 
Tideswell  they  were  more  cheerful.  They 
had  a  snug  little  cottage ;  were  near  a 
meeting  ;  and  found  friends.  They  did  not 
comidain.  Here,  again,  Jane  Dunster  at- 
tracted great  attention,  and  a  young,  thriving 
grocer  paid  his  addresses  to  her.  It  was  an 
offer  that  made  Jane  take  time  to  reflect. 
Ever}^  one  said  it  was  an  opportunity  t  to 
be  neglected  ;  but  Jane  weighed  in  her 
mind,  '"  Will  he  keep  faith  in  my  compact 
with  Nancj'  ?"  Though  her  admirer  made 
every  vow  on  the  subject,  Jane  paused  and 
determined  to  take  the  opinion  of  Nancy. 
Nancy  thought  for  a  day,  and  then  said, 
'■  Dearest  sister,  I  don't  feel  easy  ;  I  fear 
that  from  some  cause  it  would  not  do  in  the 
end." 

Jane  from  that  moment  gave  up  the  idea 
of  the  connection.  There  might  be  those 
who  would  suspect  Nancy  of  a  selfish  bias 
in  the  advice  she  gave  ;  but  Jane  knew  that 
no  such  feeling  influenced  her  pure  soul. 
For  one  long  year  the  two  sisters  traversed 
the  hills  between  Cressbrook  and  Tideswell. 
But  they  had  companions,  and  it  was  plea- 
sant in  the  summer  months.  But  winter 
came,  and  then  it  was  a  severe  trial.  To 
rise  in  the  dark,  and  traverse  those  wild  and 
bleak  hills  ;  to  go  through  snow  and  drizzle, 
a.id  face  the  sharpest  winds  in  winter,  was  no 
trifling  matter.  Before  winter  was  over,  the 
two  young  women  began  seriously  to  revolve 
the  chances  of  a  nearer  residence,  or  a  change 
of  employ.  There  were  no  few  who  blamed 
Jane  excessively  for  the  folly  of  refusing  the 
last  good  oifer.  There  were  even  more  than 
one  who,  in  the  hearing  of  Nancy,  blamed 
her.  Nancy  was  thoughtful,  agitated,  and 
wept.  "  If  I  can,  dear  sister,"  she  said, 
"  have  advised  you  to  your  injury,  how  shall 
I  forgive  mj^self?  What  shall  become  of 
mo?" 

But  Jane  clasped  her  sister  to  her  heart, 
and  said,  "  No  !  no !  dearest  sister,  you  are 
not  to  blame.  I  feel  you  are  right ;  let  us 
wait,  and  we  shall  see  !" 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    COURTSHIP  AND    ANOTHER  SHIP. 

One  evening,  as  the  two  sisters  were 
hastening  along  the  road  through  the  woods 
on  their  way  homewards,  a  young  farmer 
drove  up  in  his  spring-cart,  cast  a  look  at 
them,  stopped,  and  said  :  "  Young  women,  if 
you  are  going  my  way,  I  shall  bo  glad  of  your 
company.     You  are  quite  welcome  to  ride." 

The  sisters  looked  at  each  other.  "  Dunna 
be  afeerd,"  said  the  young  farmer ;  "  my 
name's  James  Cheshire.     I'm  well  known 


in  these  parts  ;  you  may  trust  ver«en3  wi' 
me,  if  it's  agreeable." 

To  James's  surprise,  Nancy  said,  "  No 
sir,  we  are  not  afraid  ;  we  are  much  obliged 
to  you." 

The  young  farmer  helped  them  up  into  the 
cart,  and  away  they  drove. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  shall  crowd  yuu,"  said 
Jane 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  replied  the  young  far- 
mer. "There's  room  for  three  bigger  nur 
us  on  this  seat,  and  I'm  no  ways  tedious." 

The  sisters  saw  nothing  odd  in  his  use  of 
the  word  "  tedious,"  as  strangers  would  have 
done  ;  they  knew  it  merely  meant  "  not  at  all 
particular."  They  were  soon  in  active  talk. 
As  he  had  told  them  who  he  was.  he  asked 
them  in  their  turn  if  they  worked  at  the 
mills  there.  Tliey  replied  in  the  aflBrmative, 
and  the  young  man  said: — 

"  I  thought  so.  I've  seen  you  sometimea 
going  along  together.  I  noticed  you  liecause 
you  seemed  so  sisterly  like,  and  you  are  sis- 
ters I  reckon." 

They  said  "  Yes." 

"  I've  a  good  spanking  horse,  you  see," 
said  James  Cheshire.  "  I  shall  get  over  the 
ground  rayther  faster,  nor  you  done  a-foot, 
eh  ?  My  word,  though,  it  must  be  nation 
cold  on  these  bleak  hills  i'  winter." 

The  sisters  assented,  and  thanked  the 
young  farmer  for  taking  them  up. 

"  We  are  rather  late,"  said  they,  "  for  wo 
looked  in  on  a  friend,  and  the  rest  of  the 
mill-hands  were  gone  on." 

"Well,"  said  the  young  farmer,  "never 
mind  that.  I  fancy  Bess,  my  mare  here,  can 
go  a  little  faster  nor  they  can.  We  shall 
very  likely  be  at  Tidser  as  soon  as  they  are.'' 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  Tidser,"  said 
Jane,  "your  farm  is  just  before  us  there." 

"  Yay,  I'm  going  to  Tidser  though.  I've 
a  bit  of  business  to  do  there  before  I  go 
hom." 

On  drove  the  farmer  at  what  ho  called  a 
spanking  rate  ;  yircsently  they  saw  tip-  young 
mill-people  on  the  road  before  them. 

"  There  are  your  companions,"  said  James 
Cheshire,  "we  shall  cut  past  them  like  i 
flash  of  lightning." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Jane  Dunster,  "what 
will  they  say  at  seeing  us  riiling  here  ?"  and 
she  blushed  brightly. 

"  Say  V  said  the  young  farmer,  smilinir, 
"  never  mind  what  they'll  say  ;  depend  upon 
it,  they'd  like  to  bo  here  thoirsons." 

James  Cheshire  cracked  his  wliip.  The 
horse  flew  along.  The  party  of  the  young 
mill-hands  turned  round,  and  on  seeing 
Jane  and  Nancy  in  the  cart,  uttered  excla- 
mations of  surprise. 

"  My  word,  though  !"  said  Mary  Smodley. 
a  fresh  buxom  lass,  somewhat  inclined  to 
stoutness. 

"  Well,  if  ever !"  cried  smart  little  Han- 
nah Bt)wyer. 


212 


DICKEXS'    NEW    STORIES. 


"  Nay.  then,  what  nest?"  said  Tetty  Wil- 
ton, a  tall,  thin  girl  of  very  good  looks. 

The  two  sisters  nodded  and  smiled  to 
their  companions;  Jane  still  blushing  rosily, 
but  Xancy  sitting  as  pale  and  as  gravely  as 
if  they  were  going  on  some  solemn  business. 

The  only  notice  the  farmer  took  was  to 
turn  with  a  broad  smiling  face,  and  shout 
Ui  them,  "  Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  here  too  ?" 

"  Ay,  take  us  up,"  shouted  a  number  of 
voices  together ;  but  the  farmer  cracked  his 
■whip,  and  giving  them  a  nod  and  a  dozen 
smiles  in  one,  said,  "  I  can't  stay.  Ask  the 
next  farmer  that  comes  up." 

With  this  they  drove  on  ;  the  young  far- 
mer very  merry  and  full  of  talk.  They  were 
soon  by  the  side  of  his  farm.  "  There's  a 
flock  of  sheep  on  the  turnips  there,"  he  said, 
proudly  ;  "  they're  not  to  be  beaten  on  this 
side  Ashbourne.  And  there  are  some  black 
oxen,  going  fur  the  night  to  the  strawyard. 
Jolly  fellows,  those — eh  ?  But  I  reckon  you 
don't  understand  much  of  farming  stock." 

•'  Xo,"  said  Jane,  and  was  again  sur- 
prised at  Xancy  adding,  "  I  wish  we  did.  I 
think  a  farmer's  life  must  be  the  very  hap- 
piest of  any." 

•"You  think  so?"  said  the  farmer,  turn- 
ing aud  looking  at  her  earnestly,  and  evi- 
dently with  some  wonder.  "  You  are  right," 
said  he.  "  You  little  ones  are  knowing  ones 
You  are  right;  it's  the  life  for  a  king." 

They  were  at  the  village.  "  Pray  stop," 
said  Jane,  ''  and  let  us  get  down,  I  would 
not  for  the  world  go  up  to  the  village  thus. 
It  would  make  such  a  talk !" 

"  Talk,  who  cares  for  talk?"  said  the  far- 
mer ;  "  wont  the  youngsters  we  left  on  the 
road  talk  ?" 

■'  Quite  enough,"  said  Jane. 

"And  are  you  afraid  of  talk?"  said  the 
farmer  to  X'ancy. 

"  I'm  not  afraid  of  it  when  I  don't  pro- 
voke it  willfully,"  said  X^ancy  ;  "  but  we  are 
poor  girls,  and  can't  aiford  to  lose  even  the 
good  word  of  our  acquaintance.  Y^ou've 
been  very  kind  in  taking  us  up  on  the  road, 
but  to  drive  us  to  our  door  would  cause  such 
wonder  as  would  perhaps  make  us  wish  we 
had  not  been  obliged  to  you." 

"  Blame  me,  if  you  ar'n't  right  again  !" 
said  the  farmer,  thoughtfully.  "  These  are 
scandal-loving  times,  and  th'  neebors  might 
plague  you.  That's  a  deep  head  of  yourn, 
though, — X^ancy,  I  think  your  sister  caw'd 
you.     Well,  here  I  stop  then." 

He  jumped  down  and  helped  them  out. 

"  If  you  will  drive  on  first,"  said  Jane, 
"  we  will  walk  on  after,  and  we  are  greatly 
obliged  to  you." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  shall 
turn  again  here." 

"  But  you've  business." 

"  Oh !  my  business  was  to  di-ive  you  here 
—that's  all." 

James  Cheshire  was  mounting  his  cart, 


when  X'^ancy  stepped  up,  aud  said  :  "  Excuse 
me,  Sir,  but  you'll  meet  the  mill-people  on 
your  return,  and  it  will  make  them  talk  all 
the  more  as  you  have  driven  us  past  your 
farm.  Have  you  no  business  that  you  can 
do  in  Tidser,  Sir?" 

"  Gad  !  but  thou'rt  right  again  I  Ay,  I'll 
go  on  !"  and  with  a  crack  of  his  whip,  and 
a  "  Good  night!"  he  whirled  into  the  village 
before  them. 

No  sooner  was  he  gone  than  Nancy, 
pressing  her  sister's  arm  to  her  side,  said  : 
"  There's  the  right  man  at  last,  dear  Jane." 

"  What  ?"  said  Jane,  yet  blushing  deeply 
at  the  same  time,  and  her  heart  beating 
quicker  against  her  side.  "  What  ever  are 
you  talking  of,  Nancy?  That  young  farmer 
fall  in  love  with  a  mill-girl  ?" 

"He's  done  it,"  said  Nancy;  "  I  see  it  in 
him.  I  feel  it  in  him.  And  I  feel,  too,  that 
he  is  true  and  staunch  as  steel." 

Jane  was  silent.  They  walked  on  in  si- 
lence. Jane's  own  heart  responded  to  what 
Nancy  had  said ;  she  thought  again  and 
again  on  what  he  said.  "  I  have  seen  you 
sometimes  ;"  "  I  noticed  you  because  you 
seemed  so  sisterly."  "  He  must  have  a 
good  heart,"  thought  Jane ;  "  but  then  he 
can  never  think  of  a  poor  mill-girl  like  me." 

The  next  morning  they  had  to  undergo 
plenty  of  raillery  from  their  companions. 
We  will  pass  that  over.  For  several  days, 
as  they  passed  to  and  fro,  they  saw  nothing 
of  the  young  farmer.  But  one  evening,  as 
they  were  again  alone,  having  stayed  at  the 
same  acquaintance's  as  before,  the  young 
farmer  popped  his  head  over  a  stone  wall 
and  said,  "Good  evening  to  you,  young 
women."  He  was  soon  over  the  wall,  and 
walked  on  with  them  to  the  end  of  the  town. 
On  the  Sunday  at  the  chapel  Jane  saw 
Nancy's  grave  face  fixed  on  some  object 
steadily,  and,  looking  in  the  same  direction, 
was  startled  to  see  James  Cheshire.  Again 
her  heart  beat  pit-a-pat,  and  she  thought 
"  Can  he  be  really  thinking  of  me  !" 

The  moment  chapel  was  over,  James 
Cheshire  was  gone,  stopping  to  speak  to  no 
one.  Nancy  again  pressed  the  arm  of  Jane 
to  her  side  as  they  walked  home,  and  said, 
— I  was  not  wrong."  Jane  only  replied  by 
returning  her  afi"ectionate  pressure. 

Some  days  after,  as  Nancy  Dempster  was 
coming  out  of  a  shop  in  the  evening  after 
their  return  home  from  the  mill,  James  Che- 
shire suddenly  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
and  on  her  turning  shook  her  hand  cordially, 
and  said,  "  Come  along  with  me  a  bit.  I 
must  have  a  little  talk  with  you." 

X^ancy  consented  without  remark  or  hesi- 
tation. James  Cheshire  walked  on  quickly 
till  they  came  near  the  fine  old  church  which 
strikes  travellers  as  so  superior  to  the  place 
in  which  it  is  located  ;  when  he  slackened 
his  pace,  and  taking  X'^ancy's  hand,  began 
in  a  most  friendly  manner  to  tell  her  how 


THE    MINER'S    DACGHTER3. 


2n 


much  he  liked  her  and  her  sister.  That,  to 
make  a  short  matter  of  it,  as  was  liis  way, 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  the  woman 
of  all  others  in  the  world  that  would  suit 
him  fir  a  wife  was  her  sister.  "  But  before 
I  said  ejo  to  her,  I  thought  I  would  say  so  to 
you,  I^ancy,  for  you  are  so  sensible,  I'm 
sure  you  will  say  what  is  liest  for  us  all." 

Nancy  manifested  no  surprise,  but  said 
calmly.  *'  You  are  a  well-to-do  farmer,  Mr. 
Cheshire,  You  have  friends  of  property  ; 
my  sister,  and — " 

''Ak,  rtnd  a  mill-girl ;  I  know  all  that. 
I've  thought  it  all  over,  and  so  far  you  are 
right  again,  my  little  one.  But  just  hoar 
what  I've  got  to  say.  I'm  no  fool,  though 
I  say  it.  I've  an  eye  in  my  head  and  a  head 
on  iny  shoulders,  eh?" 

N;tncy  smiled. 

"  Well  now,  it's  not  an;/  mill-girl  ;  mind 
you,  it's  not  avi/  mill-girl ;  no,  nor  perhaps 
another  in  the  kingdom,  that  would  do  for 
nie.  I  don't  think  mill-girls  are  in  the  main 
cut  out  for  farmers'  wives,  any  more  than 
farmers'  wives  are  lit  for  mill-girls  ;  but  you 
see,  I've  got  a  notion  that  your  sister  is  not 
only  a  very  farrantly  lass,  but  that  she's  one 
that  has  particular  good  sense,  though  not 
so  deep  as  you,  Nancy,  neither.  AVell,  I've 
a  notion  that  she  can  turn  her  hand  to  any- 
thing, and  that  she's  a  heart  to  do  it,  when 
it's  a  duty.  Isn't  that  so,  eh?  And  if  it  is 
so,  then  Jane  Dunster's  the  lass  for  me  ; 
tiiat  is,  if  it's  quite  agreeable." 

Nancy  pressed  James  Cheshire's  hand, 
and  said,  "  Y'^ou  are  very  kind." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  James. 

"  Well,"  continued  Nancy;  "'  but  I  would 
have  you  to  consider  what  your  iriends  will 
Bay;  and  whether  you  will  not  be  made  un- 
happy by  them." 

'•  Why,  as  for  that,"  said  James  Cheshire, 
interrujiting  her,  "mark  me,  Miss  Dunster. 
I  don't  ask  my  friends  for  anything.  I  can 
farm  my  own  farm ;  buy  my  own  cattle  ; 
drive  my  spring  cart,  without  any  advice  or 
assistance  of  theirs  ;  and  therefore  I  don't 
think  I  shall  ask  their  advice  in  the  matter 
of  a  wife,  eh  ?  No,  no,  on  that  score  I'm 
made  up.  My  name's  Independent,  and  at 
a  word,  the  only  living  thing  I  moan  to  ask 
advice  of  is  yourseii.  If  you,  Miss  Dunster, 
approve  of  the  match,  it's  settled,  as  far  as 
I'm  concerned." 

"Then  so  far,"  said  Nancy,  "as  you  and 
my  sister  are  concerned,  without  reference 
to  worldly  circumstances — I  approve  it  with 
all  my  heart.  I  believe  you  to  be  as  good 
and  honest  as  I  know  my  sister  to  be.  Oli  ! 
Mr.  Cheshire  !  she  is  one  of  ten  thousand." 

"  Well,  I  was  sure  of  it,"  said  the  young 
farmer;  "and  so  now  you  must  tell  your 
sister  all  about  it;  and  if  all's  right,  chalk 
me  a  white  chalk  inside  of  my  gate  as  you 
go  past  i'  th'  morning,  and  to-morrow  even- 
ing I'll  'jome  up  and  see  you." 


Here  the  two  parted  with  a  cordial  shake 
of  the  hand.  The  novel  signal  of  an  ac- 
cepted love  was  duly  discovered  by  James 
Cheshire  on  his  gate-post,  when  h'e  issued 
forth  at  day-break,  and  that  evening  he  waa 
sitting  at  tea  witii  Jane  and  Nan«y  in  the 
little  cottage,  having  brought  in  h'is  cart  a 
basket  of  eggs,  apples,  fresh  butter,  and  a 
pile  of  the  richest  pikelets  (crump"ts)  coun- 
try pikelets,  very  different  to  town  made 
ones,  for  tea. 

We  need  not  follow  out  the  courtship  of 
James  Cheshire  and  Jane  Dunster.  It  wan 
cordial  and  happy.  James  insisted  that 
both  the  sisters  should  give  immediate  notice 
to  quit  the  mill-work,  to  spare  themsidves 
the  cold  and  severe  walks  which  the  wini.-r 
now  occasioned  them.  The  sist'Ts  had  iui 
proved  their  educaticm  in  their  evenings 
They  were  far  better  read  and  infornn-ci  than 
most  formers'  daughters.  They  had  been, 
since  they  came  to  Tideswell,  teachers  in 
the  Sunday-school.  There  was  compara- 
tively little  to  be  learned  in  the  firm-house 
for  the  wife  in  winter,  and  James  Cheshire 
therefore  projiosed  to  the  sisters  to  go 
fiir  three  months  to  Manchester  into  a 
wholesale  house,  to  learn  as  much  as  they 
could  of  the  plain  sewing  and  cutting 
out  of  household  linen.  'I'he  person  in 
question  made  up  all  sorts  of  household 
linen,  sheets,  pillow-cases,  shirts,  and  oth«-r 
things ;  in  fact,  a  great  variety  of  articles. 
Through  an  old  aci|uaintance  he  got  them 
introduced  there,  avowedly  to  pre[iare  them 
for  housekeeping.  It  was  a  sensiltle  step, 
and  answered  well.  At  spring,  to  cut  sh<»t 
opposition  from  his  own  relatives,  which 
began  to  show  itself,  for  these  things  did 
not  fail  to  be  talked  of,  James  Cheshire  got 
a  license,  and  proceeding  to  Manchester, 
was  then  and  there  married,  and  came  home 
with  his  wife  and  sister. 

The  talk  and  gossip  which  this  wedding 
made  all  round  the  country,  was  no  little,  but 
the  parties  themselves  were  well  sati>tii'd  with 
their  mutual  choice,  and  were  hapjiy.  As  the 
spring  advanced,  the  duties  of  the  household 
grew  upon  Mrs.  Cheshire.  She  liad  to  It-ara 
the  art  of  cheese-making,  butter-making,  of 
all  that  relates  to  poultry,  calves,  and  house- 
hold management.  But  in  these  matters  she 
had  the  aid  of  an  old  servant  who  had  done 
all  this  for  Mr.  Cheshire,  since  he  began  farm- 
ing. She  took  a  great  liking  to  her  mistress, 
and  showed  her  with  hearty  gooii-will  liow 
everything  was  done;  and  as  Jane  took  a 
deep  interest  in  it,  she  rapidly  made  herself 
mistress  of  the  management  of  the  house,  as 
well  as  of  the  house  itself.  She  did  m-t 
disdain,  herself,  to  take  a  hand  at  tiie  churn, 
that  she  might  be  familiar  with  the  wimle 
process  of  butter-making,  ami  all  the  signs 
by  which  the  proecss  is  conducted  to  a  suc- 
cessful issue.  It  was  soon  seen  that  ito 
farmer's  wife  could  produce  a  firmer,  frealier. 


214 


DICKENS'   NEW    STORIES. 


sweeter  pound  of  butter.  It  was  neither 
swelted  by  too  hasty  churniu;:;,  nor  spoileil, 
as  is  too  often  the  case,  liy  the  butter-nnlk 
or  by  water  beinj;  left  in  it,  for  want  of  well 
kneading  and  pressing.  It  was  deliciously 
Bweet,  because  the  cream  was  carefully  put 
in  the  cleanest  vessels  and  well  attended  to. 
Mrs.  Cheshire,  too,  might  daily  be  seen 
kneeling  by  the  side  of  the  cheese-pan,  sepa- 
rating the  curd,  taking  oif  the  whey,  filling 
the  oheese-vat  with  the  curd,  and  putting 
the  cheese  herself  into  press.  Her  cheese- 
chamber  displayed  as  fine  a  set  of  well- 
calted,  well-colored,  well-turned  and  regular 
cheeses  as  ever  issued  from  that  or  any 
other  farm-house. 

James  Cheshire  was  proud  of  his  wife  ; 
and  Jane  herself  found  a  most  excellent 
helper  in  Nancy.  Nancy  took  particularly  to 
housekee))ing  ;  saw  that  all  the  rooms  were 
exquisitely  clean  ;  that  everything  was  in 
nice  repair ;  that  not  only  the  master  and 
mistress,  but  the  servants,  had  their  food 
prepared  in  a  wholesome  and  attractive 
manner.  The  eggs  she  stored  up  ;  and  as 
fruit  came  into  season,  had  it  collected  for 
market,  and  for  a  judicious  household  use. 
She  made  the  tea  and  coifee  morning  and 
evening,  and  did  everything  but  preside  at 
the  table.  There  was  not  a  fiirm-house  for 
twenty  miles  round  that  wore  an  air  of  so 
much  brightness  and  evident  good  manage- 
ment as  that  of  James  Cheshire.  For 
Nancy,  from  the  first  moment  of  their  ac- 
qaintance,  he  had  conceived  a  most  pro- 
found respect.  In  all  cases  that  required 
counsel,  though  he  consulted  freely  with 
his  wife,  he  would  never  decide  till  they 
had  had  Nancy's  opinion  and  sanction. 

And  James  Cheshire  prospered.  But, 
spite  of  this,  he  did  not  escape  the  perse- 
cution from  his  relations  that  Nancy  had 
foreseen.  On  all  hands  he  found  coldness. 
None  of  them  called  on  him.  They  felt 
scandalized  at  his  evening  himself,  as  they 
called  it,  to  a  mill-girl.  He  was  taunted 
when  they  met  at  market,  with  having  been 
caught  with  a  pretty  face  ;  and  told  that 
they  thought  he  had  more  sense  than  to 
marry  a  dressed  doll  with  a  witch  by  her 
side. 

At  first  James  Cheshire  replied  with  a 
careless  waggery,  "  The  pretty  face  makes 
capital  butter,  though,  eh !  The  dressed 
doll  turns  out  a  tolerable  dairy,  eh  !  Bet- 
ter," added  James,  "  than  a  good  many 
oau,  that  I  know,  who  have  neither  pretty 
faces  nor  have  much  taste  in  dressing  to 
crack  of." 

The  allusion  to  Nancy's  dwarfish  plain- 
ness was  what  peculiarly  provoked  James 
Cheshire.  He  might  have  laughed  at  the 
criticisms  on  his  wife,  though  the  envious 
neighbor's  wives  did  say  that  it  was  the 
old  servant  and  nut  Mrs.  Cheshire  who  pro- 
duced  such  fine   butter   and    cheese ,    for 


wherever  she  appeared,  spite  of  envy  and 
detraction,  her  lovely  person  and  quiet  good 
sense,  and  the  growing  rumor  of  her  good 
management,  did  not  fail  to  produce  a  due 
impression.  And  James  had  prepared  to 
laugh  it  off;  but  it  would  not  do.  He  found 
himself  getting  every  now  then  angry  and 
unsettled  by  it.  A  coarse  jest  on  Nancy  at 
any  time  threw  him  into  a  desperate  fit  of 
indignation.  The  more  the  superior  merit 
of  his  Avife  was  known,  the  more  seemed  to 
increase  the  envy  and  venom  of  some  of  his 
relatives.  He  saw,  too,  that  it  had  an  effect 
on  his  wife.  She  was  often  sad,  and  some- 
times in  tears. 

One  day,  when  this  occurred,  James 
Cheshire  said,  as  they  sat  at  tea,  "  I've 
made  up  my  mind.  Peace  in  this  life  is  a 
jewel.  Better  is  a  dinner  of  herhs  with 
peace,  than  a  stalled  ox  Avith  strife.  Well 
now,  I'm  determined  to  have  peace.  Peace 
and  luv,"  said  he,  looking  affectionately  at 
his  wife  and  Nancy,  "  peace  and  luv,  by 
God's  blessing,  have  settled  down  on  this 
house  ;  but  there  are  stings  here  and  stings 
there  when  we  go  out  of  doors.  We  must 
not  only  have  peace  and  luv  in  the  house, 
but  peace  all  round  it.  So  I've  made  up 
my  mind.     I'm  fur  America  !" 

"  For  America  !"  exclaimed  Jane.  "  Sure- 
ly you  cannot  be  in  earnest." 

"  I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in  my  life," 
said  James  Cheshire.  "  It  is  true  I  do  very 
well  on  this  farm  here,  though  it's  a  cow- 
dish  situation  ;  but  from  all  I  can  learn,  I 
can  do  much  better  in  America.  I  can 
there  farm  a  much  better  farm  of  my  own. 
We  can  have  a  much  finer  climate  than  tiiis 
Peak  country,  and  our  countrymen  still 
about  us.  Now,  I  want  to  know  what  makes 
a  man's  native  land  pleasant  to  him  ? — the 
kindness  of  his  relations  and  friends.  But 
then,  if  a  man's  relations  are  not  kind  ?^ 
if  they  get  a  conceit  into  them,  that  because 
they  are  relations  they  are  to  chiiose  a  man's 
wife  for  him,  and  sting  him  and  snort  at 
him  because  he  has  a  will  of  his  own  ? — 
why,  then  I  say,  God  send  a  good  big  her- 
ring-pool between  me  and  such  relations ! 
My  relations,  b}-  way  of  showing  their 
natural  affection,  spit  spite  and  bitterness. 
You,  dear  wife  and  sister,  have  none  of 
yourn  to  spite  you.  In  the  house  we  have 
peace  and  luv.  Let  us  take  the  peace  and 
luv.  and  leave  the  bitterness  behind." 

There  was  a  deep  silence. 

"  It  is  a  serious  proposal,"  at  length  said 
Jane,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  says  Nancy  ?"  asked  James. 

"  It  is  a  serious  proposal."  said  Nancy, 
"  but  it  is  good.     I  feel  it  so." 

There  was  another  deep  silence ;  and 
James  Cheshire  said,  "  Then  it  is  decided." 

"  Think  of  it,"  said  Jane,  earnestly. — 
••  think  well  of  it." 

"  I  have  thought  of  it  long  and  well,  my 


THE  MINER'S  DAUGHTERS. 


215 


dear.  There  are  some  of  these  chaps  that 
call  me  relatloa  that  I  shall  not  keep  my 
hands  off.  if  I  stay  amongst  them, — and  I  fain 
would.  But  for  the  present  I  will  say  no 
more  ;  but,"  added  he,  rising  and  bringing 
a  book  from  his  desk,  "here  is  a  book  by 
one  Morris  Blrkbeck, — read  it,  both  of  you, 
and  then  let  me  know  your  minds." 

The  sisters  read.  On  the  following  Lady- 
day,  James  Cheshire  had  turned  over  his 
farm  advantageously  to  another,  and  he, 
his  wife,  Nancy,  and  the  old  servant,  Mary 
Spendlove,  all  embarked  at  Liverpool,  and 
transferred  themselves  to  the  United  States, 
and  then  to  the  State  of  Illinois.  Five- 
and-twenty  years  have  rolled  over  since  that 
day.  We  could  tell  a  long  and  curious 
Btory  of  the  fortunes  of  James  Cheshire  and 
his  family ;  from  the  days  when,  half  re- 
penting of  his  emigration  and  his  purchase, 
he  found  himself  in  a  rough  country,  amid 


rough  and  spiteful  squatters,  and  lay  for 
months  with  a  brace  of  pistols  under  his 
pillow,  and  a  great  sword  by  his  bedside  for 
fear  of  robbery  and  murder.  But  enough, 
that  at  this  moment,  James  Cheshire,  in  a 
fine  cultivated  country,  sees  his  ample  es- 
tates cultivated  by  his  sons,  while  as  Colonel 
and  Magistrate  he  dispenses  the  law  and 
receives  the  respectful  homage  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. Nancy  Dunster,  now  styled  Mrs. 
Dunstor,  the  Mother  in  Israel — the  pro- 
moter of  schools  and  the  counsellor  of  old 
and  young — still  lives.  Years  have  im- 
proved rather  than  deteriorated  her  short 
and  stout  exterior.  The  long  exercise  of 
wise  thoughts  and  the  play  of  benevolent 
feelings,  have  given  even  a  sabred  beauty 
to  her  homely  features.  The  dwarf  has 
disappeared,  and  there  remains  instead,  a 
grave  but  venerable  matron, — honored  like 
a  queen. 


FORTUNE   WILDRED. 


»MV^*#  •^ '^#yv~»— 


A  GREAT  many  years  ago — two-and-twenty 
years  to-night — I  well  remember  what  a 
cold,  wet  night  it  was,  with  a  thick  sleet 
driving  against  the  windows,  and  a  melan- 
choly, moaning  wind  creeping,  .through  the 
leafless  branches.  It  had  been  quite  a  sad 
winter  time  to  us  at  home — the  only  sad  one 
I  had  ever  known,  for  it  was  just  two  or 
three  weeks  after  the  accident  had  happened 
that  first  laid  me  on  my  couch,  and  only  a 
few  days  before,  my  father  had  told  me 
that  I  should  never  be  able  to  rise  from 
it  any  more.  It  had  been  a  heavy  blow  to 
us  all. 

We  sat  together  in  the  drawing-room  all 
the  long  evening,  my  father,  and  my  mother, 
and  I — my  sister  Kate  had  gone  the  day  be- 
fore to  some  friends  of  ours  in  the  country. 
One  gets  so  soon  used  to  misfortunes  and 
disappointments  when  just  a  little  time  has 
passed ;  but,  at  the  first,  they  are  often  so 
hard  to  bear,  and  I  think  that  never,  at  any 
time,  did  I  feel  such  sorrow  at  the  thought 
that  I  must  be  an  invalid  my  whole  life  as 
I  did  that  night.  I  was  only  a  girl — not 
fifteen  yet ;  and,  at  that  age  we  are  so  full 
of  bright  dreams  about  the  future,  looking 
forward  with  such  clear,  joyous  hopefulness 
to  the  world  that  is  just  beginning  to  open 
before  us,  stretching  out  our  hands  so 
eagerly  to  the  golden  light  that  we  think  we 
see  in  the  far  distance.  It  was  so  hard  to 
have  the  bright  view  shut  out  for  ever,  to 
have  the  bright  dreams  fade  away,  to  have 
all  the  hopes  that  to  me  had  made  the 
thought  of  life  so  beautiful,  torn  from  me 
for  ever  in  one  moment. 

I  had  borne  the  knowledge  of  it  all  quite 
calmly  at  first ;  it  was  only  now  that  I 
thought  I  really  felt  and  knew  all  that  I  was 
losing.  But,  thank  God,  my  life  has  not 
been  what  in  my  faithlessness  I  thought, 
that  night,  it  would  be  ;  thank  God,  that 
the  whole  bitterness  of  those  few  hours' 
thought  has  never  come  to  me  as  it  did 
ih-dn,  again. 
V  Early  in  the  evening  my  father  had  been 
reading  to  us  aloud  ;  but  since  he  ceased,  no 
word  had  been  spoken  in   the   room,     lie 


had  been  writing  for  the  last  two  hours  ;  my 
mother,  sitting  by  the  fire,  was  reading. 
The  whole  house  was  silent;  and  from  with- 
out, the  only  sounds  that  came  to  us  were 
the  wind  howling  through  the  trees,  and  the 
cold  rain  dashing  on  tiie  windows — bi'th 
cheerless  sounds  enough  to  hear.  It  was  in- 
deed a  night  for  melancholy  thoughts  ;  and 
to  one  ill  and  weak  as  I  was  then,  perhaps 
it  was  to  be  forgiven  that,  thinking  of  the 
future  and  the  past,  looking  back  upon  the 
happy  days  that  were  gone,  and  forward  to 
where  the  sunless  clouds  hung  so  heavily.  I 
should  scarcely  be  able  to  press  back  "the 
tears  that  tried  to  blind  me. 

For  when  we  are  very  young  we  shrink 
so  from  feeling  prison-bound  :  we  firay  no 
earnestly,  that  if  sorrow  must  come  to  us,  it 
may  rather  burst  in  sudden  storm  upon  us, 
and,  passing  away,  leave  the  blue  sky  clenr 
again,  than  that  our  wliole  life  should  be 
wrapped  up  in  a  cold  gray  shroud,  through 
which  no  deep  sorrow  can  ever  pierce  into 
our  hearts — no  deep  joy  ever  come  to  glad- 
den us. 

And  in  that  gray  shroud  I  thought  that 
my  life  was  to  lie  hidden  and  withered  ;  and 
now,  while  as  yet  it  was  only  closing  over  me 
— while  with  passionate  resistance  I  would 
still  have  struggled  to  tear  it  back,  I  felt  that 
my  hands  were  bound. 

A  little  thing  will  sometimes  serve  to 
divert  our  thoughts,  even  when  they  very 
much  engross  us  ;  and  so  it  was  tliat  night 
that  I  was  suddenly  startled  out  of  the  niids* 
of  my  reverie  by  two  loud  sharp  knocks 
upon  the  street  door — a  sound  cerrainly  by 
no  means  uncommon.  And  perhayis,  if  inr- 
thing  more  had  followed,  I  might  have  fallen 
again  into  my  former  thouglits  ;  but,  as  I 
lay  for  a  few  moments  listening,  the  door 
was  opened,  and  tlien  there  followed  such 
strange  hurried  exclamations — half  of  sur- 
prise, half  of  alarm — mingled  with  such  ap- 
parently irrcsistilile  bursts  of  laughter,  tliat 
my  first  dull  interest  began  rapidly  to  change 
into  a  far  more  active  feeling. 

"  My  love,  what's  that?"  sn&kcd  my  father, 
without  looking  up. 

(217) 


218 


DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES. 


"  I  can't  imagine  !"  my  mother  answered, 
_j»--a-pm;zit?d  tOTrc,  lay4«g  down-  her  book. 

Just  at  this  moment  we  heard  a  quick 
Btep  running  up  the  stairs,  and  all  our  eyes 
with  one  accord  turned  to  the  door,  which 
in  two  or  three  minutes  was  burst  open,  and 
to  our  extreme  amazement,  in  rushed  our 
servant  Ann  witii  a  little  hali-naked  child 
in  her  arms.  Y^s,  that  little  creature  stand- 
ing on  the  stop,  was  the  only  thing  to  be 
seen  when  she  had  opened  the  door. 

•'  Upon  my  word  this  is  going  too  far," 
my  father  exclaimed,  angriiy,  when  he  had 
heard  Ann's  story.  "  It  isn't  two  months 
since  the  same  trick  was  played  in  town. 
Ann,  call  Tom  to  get  a  lantern  immediately, 
and  follow  me.  We  must  make  a  search ; 
though  indeed  it's  hopeless  to  think  of 
catching  any  one  on  such  a  night  as  this 
Whoever  has  done  it  is  out  of  reach  by  this 
tinie.  My  dear,"  he  turned  round  as  he' 
was  hurrying  from  the  room,  "  don't  do  any- 
tliing  with  the  child  until  I  come  back  ;  I'm 
afraid  she's  ill,"  and  he  closed  the  door. 

1  shall  never  forget  what  a  poor  little  ob- 
ject it  was.  It  had  scarcely  an  atom  of 
clothing  on  it — just  a  torn  old  frock  that 
would  hardly  hang  together,  and  its  poor 
little  white  shoulders  and  arms  were  all 
bare,  and  wet  with  the  heavy  rain.  Her 
pretty  fair  hair  was  wet  too,  but  her  face 
was  what  attracted  and  astonished  me  most, 
for  in  spite  of  the  bitter  coldness  of  the  night, 
it  was  glowing  like  fire,  with  a  spot  of  the 
brightest  scarlet  on  each  cheek,  and  her 
large  blue  eyes  so  unnaturally  bright  that  it 
was  quite  painful  to  look  at  them.  Yet  such 
a  sweet  face  it  w;i,s  ! 

,  My  mother  made  her  kneel  beside  me  on 
my  couch,  and  we  talked  to  her,  and  kissed 
her,  and  taking  off  the  old  wet  frock,  wrap- 
ped my  mother's  shawl  around  her  ;  but  all 
the  time,  and  though  she  was  certainly  more 
than  two  years  old,  she  remained  as  perfectly 
unmoved  as  though  she  had  been  a  little 
statue,  only  those  great  bright  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  my  face,  until  I  began  to  get  ab- 
solutely frightened  at  her.    .. 

In  about  twenty  minutes  my  father  re- 
turned from  his  useless  search. 

"  We  can  do  nothing  more  to-night,"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  of  considerable  vexation,  as 
he  joined  us  again,  "  Poor  child,  she's  very 
feverish  indeed ;  why,  exposure  on  such  a 
night  is  enough  to  kill  her.  My  love,  you 
must  put  her  to  bed  ;  there's  no  help  for  it, 
and  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  her.  But 
really  it's  a  little  too  much  to  expect  that  all 
tlie  sick  children  of  the  neighborhood  are 
not  only  to  be  cured  for  nothing,  but  to  be 
housed  too,  by  the  physician."  And  my 
father  left  the  room,  to  change  his  wet 
garments,  in  no  very  contented  state  of 
mind. 

My  mother  put  out  her  hands  to  lift  the 
child  from  my  side,  and  then  for  the  first 


time  a  moaning  sound  broke  from  her,  and 
leaning  forward  she  caught  my  dress  with 
her  little  hands,  and  held  it  tight,  half  cry- 
ing, as  if  she  feared  to  go  away.  I  pressed 
her  to  me,  and  clasped  my  arms  around  her. 
I  couldn't  help  it — and  she  let  me  do  it,  and 
laid  down  her  head  upon  my  bosom,  the 
dear  child !  with  that  plaintive  moaning 
sound  again.  I  was  almost  weeping  myself, 
half  with  pity,  half  with  love — for  I  loved 
her  so  much  already,  as  we  love  all  things 
that  cling  to  us,  all  things  that — weaker 
than  ourselves — appeal  to  us  for  protection. 
And  so,  for  I  could  not  bear  that  against 
her  will  she  should  be  made  to  leave  me, 
still  keeping  her  in  my  arms,  I  had  the 
couch  wheeled  into  my  bedroom  :  and  there, 
in  Kate's  bed  we  laid  her,  poor  little  weary 
suffering  thing. 
'^^t  would  be  too  long  to  tell  you  all  about 
"Mlier  illness,  for  she  was  ill  for  many  weeks  ; 
how  patient  she  was  ;  how  anxious  we  all 
were  for  her ;  how,  in  spite  of  a  few  cross 
words  at  first,  my  kind  father  tended  her 
with  as  much  care  as  ever  he  bestowed  upon 
his  wealthiest  patient ;  how  my  dear  mother 
sat  up  night  after  night  with  her,  as  though 
she  had  been  her  own  child  ;  how  the  little 
thing  crept  so  into  all  our  hearts,  that  when 
at  last  one  evening  my  father  pronounced 
her  out  of  danger,  even  his  voice  was  broken 
with  emotion,  and  we  were  fairly  crying — 
both  my  mother  and  I. 

Nor  will  I  trouble  you  with  an  account 
of  all  the  fruitless  search  that  was  made  to 
discover  who  she  was  or  where  she  came 
from,  but  one  thing  I  must  mention,  because 
it  perplexed  us  very  much,  and  added  to 
our  difficulty  in  deciding  how  to  dispose  of 
her.  It  was  this  :  that  we  began  to  sus- 
pect— what  at  first  had  never  entered  our 
heads — that  she  had  been  stolen,  and  was 
not  a  poor  woman's  child.  It  was  her  own 
dim  recollections  of  past  things  that  gave 
rise  to  this  supposition,  but  the  fever  had  so 
confused  all  things  in  her  poor  little  head, 
that  we  never  could  reach  any  certainty 
upon  the  subject. 

Well,  the  end  of  all  was  that  we  could  not 
part  from  her,  for  we  had  all  grown  to  love 
her  so  well  already,  and  we  knew  that  if  we 
sent  her  away  from  us,  the  only  place  that 
would  receive  her  was  the  workhouse.  So 
it  was  quite  settled  at  last  that  she  should 
stay  with  us,  and  because  she  had  taken  to 
me  so  much  from  the  first,  they  pronounced, 
laughing,  that  she  should  be  my  child ;  and 
I  was  so  happy. 

I  called  her  Fortune — Fortune  Wildred 
we  baptized  her — that,  should  she  never 
find  her  own  surname,  she  might  at  least 
have  some  proper  claim  to  ours.  Of  course 
she  must  have  had  a  Christian  name  before  ; 
indeed  she  said  she  remembered  it,  and 
declared  that  it  was  Willie ;  but,  Willie 
seemed  so  odd  a  name  to  give  a  girl,  that  we 


FORTUXE  WILDRED. 


219 


agreed  It  would  not  do,  and  then  I  chose 
Fortune. 

3Ij  little  Fortune — she  was  so  dear  to  me. 
and  she  loved  nie  too,  so  well?  Younj;  as  I 
was,  our  relation  to  each  other  became  in 
many  thinp;s  like  motlier  and  oliikl.  It  was 
sirange  that,  of  her  own  accord,  from  the 
first  she  called  me  Aunt  Dinah.  And  I  so 
soon  grew  accustomed  to  the  title,  and  so 
Boon  toi)  iVll  ([ui(e  naturally  into  calling  hiT 
nxy  cliild,  t\tv  though  yet  hut  a  girl  in  years, 
I  was  becoming  a  wuman  very  quickly,  as  I 
should  think  must  often'  bo  the  case  with 
those  who  have  tlicir  destiny  in  life  fixed  as 
*arly  as  mine  was,  for  I  had  no  otlicr  out- 
ward cJiaiige  to  l(jok  forward  to  as  most  girls 
have,  and  all  my  business  was  to  settle  down 
and  be  content.  ■- 

■""TMy  life,  I  often  think,  might  have  been 
lonely  and  sad  without  my  child,  but  with 
her  I  was  very  happy.  It  was  as  if  I  lived 
again  in  her,  for  all  the  hopes  and  wishes 
tliat  my  illness  had  crushed,  came  into  life 
again,  but  not  for  myself  now.  It  was  for 
her  that  I  dreamed,  and  hoped,  and  thought 
— for  the  little  bright-eyed  child  who  loved 
to  lie  beside  me,  with  her  white  arms  round 
my  neck,  and  her  soft  cheek  pressed  on 
mine;  who  loved — Heaven  bless  her — to  be 
with  me  always;  who  never  was  so  happy 
as  when,  even  for  hours,  we  two  would  be 
left  alone  together,  and,  with  the  yierfect  con- 
fidence that  only  children  have,  she  would 
talk  to  me  of  all  things  that  came  in  her 
mind,  gladdening  my  very  heart  with  the 
loving  things  she  said.  They  all  loved  her, 
but  none  as  I  did,  fur  she  loved  none  of  them 
so  well.  They  used  to  say  that  I  should 
spoil  her,  but  I  never  did  ;  she  was  not  made 
to  be  spoiled,  my  little  Fortune,  my  sunny, 
bright-haired  child  ! 

She  was  my  pupil  for  the  first  few  years, 
and  such  dear  lessons  they  were  that  we  used 
to  have  togfther — dear  to  both  of  us,  though 
most  to  me.  She  was  so  good  and  gentle, 
so  sorry  if  she  ever  grieved  me,  so  eager  to 
be  good  and  be  forgiven  again — as  though 
my  heart  did  not  forgive  her  always,  even 
before  she  asked  it — so  loving  always.  She 
nev<^r  wearied  of  being  with  me — the  kind 
child — not  even  when,  as  happened  some- 
times, I  was  too  ill  to  bear  her  childish  mer- 
riment, and  she  would  have  to  sit  quietly 
in  my  room,  and  lower  her  sweet  clear  voice 
when  she  spoke  to  me,  for  she  would  hang 
upon  my  neck  then  too,  and  whisper  to  me 
how  she  loved  me.  Ah,  I  never  shall  forget 
it  all — I  never  shall  forget  how  good  my 
little  Fortune  was  to  me. 

I  may  as  well  mention  here,  that  soon 
after  it  was  settled  she  should  stay  with  us, 
we  had  a  little  miniature  portrait  of  her 
taken,  which  I  have  worn  ever  since  as  a 
locket  round  my  neck.  We  did  this  on  the 
chance  that  it  might  possibly  serve  on  some 
future  day  as  a  means  of  identifying  her. 


Here  is  the  little  picture  now ;  it  is  so  like 
her,  as  I  have  seen  her  a  thousan<l  times, 
with  her  sunny  veil  of  curls  around  her. 

The  years  went  on,  and  brought  some 
changes  with  them — one  citange  which  was 
very  .sad — my  mother's  death,  it  came  upon 
us  suddenly,  at  a  time  when  we  wen'  least 
thinking  of  sorrow,  for  when  hi.T  short  illness 
began  we  were  preparing  for  my  sister 
Kate's  marriage.  It  was  long  beff)re  tho 
gloom  and  grief  tliat  her  loss  threw  upon 
our  little  household  passed  awav.  for  she 
was  dearly  loved  amongst  us,  and  had  been 
a  most  noble  and  true-hearted  woman. 

When  Kate  had  been  married  about  a 
year,  my  father  withdrew  from  practice, 
and,  to  be  near  her,  wo  removed  to  Derliy- 
shire,  and  he,  and  I,  and  Fortune,  kept 
house  there,  in  a  quiet  cheerful  way  together. 
And  so  the  years  went  on  until  my  cliild 
was  about  seventeen. 

In  this  new  part  of  the  country  we  had  not 
many  neighbors  with  whom  we  were  inti- 
mate, but  there  was  one  family,  who,  since 
our  first  coming,  had  shown  us  nmch  kind 
ness.  Their  name  was  B(;resford,  and  they 
consisted  of  a  father  and  mother,  and  ono 
son,  who  was  at  college.  They  were  weal- 
thy people,  with  a  good  deal  of  property  in 
the  county.  When  we  first  knew  them  I 
had  not  been  without  a  suspicion — I  almost 
think  it  was  a  hope,  that  Arthur  Beresford 
and  my  Fortune  might  one  day  fall  in  Ihvo 
with  one  another;  but  it  was  not  to  Ije,  fi.r 
as  they  grew  up,  I  saw  that  there  was  no 
thought  of  more  than  a  common  friendly 
love  between  them  ;  ami,  indeed,  boys  of  one- 
and-twenty  are  getuM-ally  occupied  with 
other  things  than  falling  in  love,  and  girls 
of  seventeen,  I  think,  generally  suppose 
that  one-and-twenty  is  too  young  for  theni 
to  have  anything  to  do  with,  as  no  doui)t  it 
very  often  is.  So  they  remained  good  friends, 
and  nothing  more. 

I  remember  well  Arthur  Beresford's  t<^ 
turn  from  college  two  or  three  months  l)eforo 
he  came  of  age,  and  how,  on  the  day  after — 
a  bright  June  morning  it  was — he  hurst 
into  our  drawing-foom  with  a  gay  exclama- 
tion, "Here  I  am.  Aunt  Dinah,  and  free  for 
the  nest  four  months  !"  and  coming  up  to 
me,  took  both  my  hands  in  his,  and  look^'d 
so  gay,  and  so  happy,  and  so  handsonv, 
that  it  did  me  good  only  to  look  at  liim.  Ilrt 
was  in  very  high  spirits  indeed,  for  not  only 
had  he  gained  his  freedom,  as  he  call.'d  it, 
but  he  had  succeeded  in  bringing  back  with 
him  his  cousin.  Nevill  Erlinirton,  a  fVUow 
and  tutor  at  Oxford,  who  had  done  him,  so 
he  said,  such  services  tluiing  lli^!  career 
there,  that  had  it  not  been  fir  him  he  should 
never  have  been  tho  happy  fellow  he  was 
there,  wtiich,  whether  it  was  as  true  as  ho 
thought  it  or  not,  I  liked  the  boy  for  saying 
and  thinking. 

And  one  or  two  days  afterwards,  Nevill 


220 


DICKENS'   NEW   STORIES. 


Erlinfiton  came  ^vith  Mr.  Beresford  ami 
Artllur  to  call  on  us.  He  was  six  or  seven 
Years  older  than  Arthur,  and  neither  so 
lively  nor  so  handsome,  but  ho  had  a  firm, 
broad,  thou<i;litful  brow,  and  deep  lustmus 
eyes,  and  a  voice  so  deep,  an<l  rich,  and  soft, 
that  it  was  like  tiie  sound  of  nuisic;  to  hear 
him  speak.  1  liked  him  from  tlie  first — we 
all  did — and  it  was  not  hmg  before  he  be- 
came an  almost  daily  visitor  at  our  house, 
coming  sometimes  alone,  on  the  excuse — I 
knew  it  was  but  an  excuse — of  bringing  us 
books,  or  news,  or  some  such  thing,  but 
more  often  with  one  or  other  of  the  Bores- 
fords.  Indeed,  after  a  little  time,  I  know 
that  I,  for  one,  fell  quite  into  a  htaldt  of 
missing  him  if  ever  a  day  passed  without 
his  coming,  for  his  quiet,  gentle  presence 
had  in  it  a  great  charm  to  me,  and  he  had 
fallen  so  kindly  ami  naturally  into  my  ways, 
that  I  had  felt,  almost  from  the  first  day, 
that  he  was  not  a  stranger  but  a  friend. 

Nor  was  I  the  only  one  who  watched  for 
his  daily  visits,  or  felt  lonely  when  he  did 
not  come.  My  dear  child  seldom  spoke 
much  of  him  when  he  was  away  ;  even 
when  he  was  with  us  she  was  often  very 
quiet,  but  I  knew  soon  that  in  both  their 
hearts  a  deep,  true  love  was  growing  up, 
and  that  my  darling  would  one  day  l)e  Ne- 
vill's  wife.  And  he  deserved  her,  and  she 
him.  Timid  as  she  was  now,  I  knew  that 
it  would  not  be  always  so:  I  knew  that 
presently  when  all  was  understood  between 
them,  her  present  reserve  would  pass  away, 
and  my  Fortune,  as  she  really  was,  with  her 
bright,  sunny  gaiety,  with  her  graceful, 
hoping  woman's  nature,  with  her  deeply- 
loving,  faithful  heart,  would  stand  beside 
him,  to  illume  and  to  brii^hten  his  whole 
life.  Such  happy  days  those  were  while 
these  two  young  hearts  were  drawing  to 
each  other — happy  to  them  and  mc,  though 
over  my  joy  there  was  still  one  little 
cloud. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beresford  were  the  only 
persons  amongst  our  new  friends  to  whom  I 
had  told  my  Fortune's  story.  I  did  not  feel 
that  it  was  a  thing  I  needed  to  tell  to  every 
one  ;  but  now  I  was  anxious  that  Nevill 
should  know  it,  and  felt  uneasy  as  day  after 

Eassed,  and  kept  him  still  in  ignorance, 
iut  indeed  I  was  perplexed  what  to  do,  for 
he  and  I  were  almost  never  alone,  and  in 
the  state  in  which  matters  were  yet  be- 
tween him  and  Fortune,  it  would  have  been 
premature  and  even  indelicate  to  ask  Mrs. 
Beresford  to  interfere.  There  was  only  one 
opportunity  I  had  for  speaking  to  him,  and 
that  I  lost.  I  remember  that  day  well. 
My  father  and  Fortune  had  gone  after  din- 
ner to  my  sister  Kate's,  expecting  to  be 
back  in  an  hour,  and  when  the  hour  had 
nearly  elapsed,  Nevill  came  in  alone,  bring- 
ing a  request  that  they  would  return  with 
him  to  spend  the  evening  at  the  Beresfords. 


I  thought  they  would  soon  be  in,  so  lie  will- 
ingly agreed  to  wait ;  and  sitting  beside  me 
at  tiie  open  window,  he  presently  began — 
it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  done  so — 
to  talk  of  Fortune.  It  was  strange  :  with- 
out a  word  of  preparation  or  introduction, 
he  spoke  of  her  as  only  one  who  loved  her 
could  speak.  For  a  moment  I  was  startled  ; 
then  I  fell  into  his  tone,  and  I  too  talked 
of  my  child  as  I  could  have  done  to  few  but 
him.  There  was  no  explanation  between 
us,  but  each  read  the  other's  heart  fully  and 
perfectly.  And,  yet,  not  even  then  did  I 
tell  him  Fortune's  story.  I  longed  to  do  it 
— it  was  on  my  lips  again  and  agnin — but 
I  was  expecting  her  return  with  my  father 
every  moment,  and  I  feared  to  be  inter- 
rupted when  I  had  on(;e  begun.  So  the 
time  went  past,  and  I  was  vexed  with  my- 
self wiien  it  was  gone,  that  my  tale  was 
still  untold. 

Though  it  was  after  sunset  when  they 
came  in,  Nevill  persuaded  them  still  to  ac- 
company him  back.  I  remember  well  his 
warm  though  silent  farewell  to  me  that 
night.  I  remember,  too,  when  they  were 
all  away,  how  long  I  lay  and  thought  in  the 
summer  twilight.  I  ought  to  have  been 
glad,  and  I  was  glad,  but  yet  some  low  sad 
voice,  that  I  thought  I  had  hushed  to  si- 
lence years  ago  for  ever,  would  awnke  in 
my  heart  again,  making  me  break  the 
beauty  of  that  summer  evening  with  my 
rebellious  tears.  It,  was  onl_y  for  a  little 
time,  for  I,  who  had  been  so  happy,  what 
right  had  I  to  weep  bec^ause  sortie  hopes  had 
died?  I  pressed  my  tears  back,  praying  tc 
be  forgiven,  and  soon  the  soft  stillness  of 
the  night  calmed  me,  and  I  thought  again 
of  ni}'  dear  child,  and  eagerly  and  hope- 
fully as  ever  I  had  done  when  I  was  young, 
I  dreamed  bright  dreams  for  her  future 
life.  AV^hen  I  was  young  !  I  was  but  nine- 
and-twenty  now,  yet  how  far  Ixiek  my 
youth  seemed!  Strange, there  were  scarcely 
two  years  between  me  and  Nevill,  yet  how 
every  one — how  he,  how  I  myself— looked 
on  me  as  old  compared  with  him. 

It  was  late  when  they  came  home  that 
night,  and  I  thought  my  darling  looked  sad. 
I  had  thought  so  once  or  twice  of  lat«. 
She  slept  in  a  room  opening  from  mine; 
and  always  came  the  last  thing  to  say  good- 
night to  me.  To-night,  when  she  came,  I 
was  grieved,  for  she  looked  as  if  she  had 
been  weeping.  She  stood  beside  my  eouch 
— the  light  from  behind,  that  streamed 
through  the  opened  door,  fulling  on  bright, 
unbound  hair,  and  also  herself  looking  so 
pure  and  beautiful — my  own  Fortune!  I 
kept  her  a  few  minutes  by  me,  for  I  longed 
to  cheer  her;  but  she  did  not  seem  to  care 
much  to  talk.  I  said  something  about 
Nevill,  and  she  asked  if  he  had  been  long 
here  befijre  they  came. 

"About  an  hour,"  I  said. 


FORTUNE   WILDRED. 


>1 


"  Ah  !  I  am  glad,"  she  answered.  "  I  -was 
afraid  my  poor  Aunty  had  been  alone  the 
whole  nicjht.     It  was  kind  of  him." 

"  Yes,  he  is  always  kind,  dear,"  I  said. 

Which  she  did  not  answer,  but  smiled  gen- 
tly to  herself,  and  stood  in  silence,  with  my 
hand  in  hers  ;  then  suddenly  she  frightened 
me,  for  quickly  stooping  down,  she  laid  her 
head  upon  my  shoulder,  and  I  felt  her  sob- 
bing. At  first  she  would  not  tell  me  why 
she  wept,  but  whispered  through  her  tears 
that  it  would  grieve  me  ;  that  I  should  think 
she  was  ungrateful — I,  who  had  been  so 
good  to  her,  and  loved  her  so  well  always. 
But  when  I  pressed  her  earnestly  ;  it  came 
at  last.  It  was  because  through  the  wide 
world  she  knew  not  where  to  seek  for  a  fa- 
ther or  a  mother  :  because,  to  the  very  name 
she  bore  she  had  no  claim,  because  to  all 
but  us,  she  said,  her  life  had  ever  been  a 
deceit,  and  was  so  still  ;  because  she  felt  so 
humbled  before  those  she  loved,  knowing 
that  she  had  no  right  they  should  be  true  to 
her  whose  first  step  had  been  a  falsehood  to 
them. 

She  told  me  this,  pouring  it  out  rapidly 
— passionately:  and  I  understood  it  all, 
and  far  more  than  she  told  me.  Alas !  I 
might  have  guessed  it  all  before. 

I  comforted  her  as  I  could.  I  told  her  that 
her  first  grief  she  must  bear  still — hope- 
fully— if  she  could  ;  that  for  the  rest,  she 
should  not  sorrow  any  longer,  for  all  whose 
love  she  cared  for  should  know  what  her 
history  was.  I  told  her  to  have  courage,  and 
I  thanked  her  earnestly,  and  truly,  fur  how 
she  had  spoken  to  me  then  ;  and  presently, 
weeping  still,  but  happier  and  full  of  love, 
my  darling  left  me — left  me  to  weep,  be- 
cause a  grief  I  should  have  known  would 
come  had  fallen  on  me. 

I  said  that  the  Beresfords  were  landed  pro- 
prietors, and  Arthur  was  their  only  scm  ; 
60  his  coming  of  age  was  to  be  a  great  day. 
Of  course,  I  very  seldom  moved  from  home  ; 
but  it  had  long  been  a  promise  that  on  this 
occasion  we  were  to  spend  a  week  with 
them,  and  the  time  was  now  close  at  hand  ; 
indeed  it  was  on  the  second  day,  I  think, 
after  I  had  had  this  talk  with  my  child, 
that  our  visit  was  to  begin.  So,  early  on 
that  day  we  went. 

I  have  not  mentioned  that,  for  the  last 
fortnight,  besides  Nevill,  the  Beresfords  had 
had  other  visitors  with  them — a  brother  of 
Mrs.  Beresford's — a  Colonel  Ilaughton  with 
his  wife  and  their  two  children,  a  little  boy 
and  girl.  They  had  just  returned  from  India, 
where,  indeed,  Mrs.  Ilaughton  had  lived 
many  years.  She  was  in  delicate  health, 
and  did  not  go  out  much,  so  that  she  was 
as  yet  almost  a  stranger  to  me  ;  but  the 
little  I  had  seen  of  her,  and  all  that  Fortune 
had  told  me  about  her,  pleased  me  so  much 
that  I  was  not  at  all  sorry  for  this  opportu- 
nity of  knowing  more  of  her.     There  was 


something  graceful  and  winning  in  her 
manner,  indeed,  tiiat  prepossessed  mont 
people  in  her  favor,  and  there  was  much, 
both  of  beauty  and  refinement,  in  her  faoe.  ' 

It  was  the  day  after  we  came,  and  a  kind 
of  preliminary  excitement  was  tiirou;:h  the 
house,  for  the  next  morning  waw  to  uslier  in 
Arthur's  birth-day  ;  and  to-day  Mrs.  Beres- 
ford  was  giving  a  large  children's  party, 
expressly  in  honor  of  little  Agnes  and 
Henry  Ilaughton.  I  think  wo  Jiad  every 
child  for  six  or  seven  miles  round  assem- 
bled together  ;  and  there  had  been  music 
and  danring  and  a  oeaseless  peal  of  merry 
voices  all  tiirough  the  long  summer  even- 
ing, and  everyliody  looked  gay  and  happy, 
and  all  went  well,  for  not  a  few  of  the  elder 
ones  had  turned  themselves  into  children 
too,  for  the  time,  to  aid  them  in  tlieir  games. 

It  was  growing  late,  and  even  the  lightest 
feet  began  to  long  for  a  little  rest,  when 
from  one  large  group  that  had  gathered 
together,  there  came  a  loud  call  to  yilay  at 
forfeits  ;  and  in  two  or  three  moments,  all 
were  busy  gathering  pretty  things  together 
to  pour  into  Fortune's  lap;  and  then  they 
merrily  began  the  game,  and  laughed  and 
clapped  their  hands  with  deiiglit  as  each 
holder  of  a  forfeit  was  proclaimed. 

The  most  uproarious  laughter  had  just 
been  excited  by  Nevill's  performance  of 
some  penalty  allotted  to  him  ;  and  then  I 
recollect  well  how  he  came,  looking  very 
happy,  to  kneel  at  Fortune's  feet  and  de- 
liv(!r  the  next  sentence.  She  hehl  up  a 
little  ring  ;  and,  when  she  asked  the  usual 
question,  what  the  possessor  of  it  was  to  do, 
he  answered  gaily, 

"To  give  us  her  autobiography." 

There  was  a  pause  for  a  moment,  while 
they  waited  for  Fortune  to  declare  whose  the 
forfeit  was,  but  she  did  not  speak,  for  the 
ring  was  hers.  Nevill  had  risen  from  hia 
knees,  and  seeing  it,  he  exclaimed  laughing, 
for  he  knew  it, 

"  What,  Miss  Wildred,  has  this  fallen  to 
your  lot  ?" 

She  looked  up  hurriedly  from  him  to  me, 
and  said.  "  Aunt  Dinah,"  quickly,  as  if  to 
ask  me  to  speak.  But,  before  1  had  opened 
my  lips,  Mrs.  Bcresford  came  forward,  and 
said  kindly  : 

"Nevill,  I  think  it  will  be  hardly  fair  tc 
press  this  forfeit.  Wo  can't  cxjiect  young 
ladies  to  be  willing  to  declare  their  auto- 
biographies in  public,  you  know." 

I  interrupted  Nevill  and  answereil. 

"  But  if  you  will  take  my  account  of  For- 
tune's life  instead  of  calling  on  her  for  her 
own,  I  think  I  can  answer  for  her  willing- 
ness to  let  you  hear  it.  Shall  it  be  so,  Mr. 
Erlington  ?" 

But  he  was  eager  that  it  should  be  passed 
over,  was  even  vexed  that  any  word  hm, 
been  said  about  it  at  all.  I  understood  his 
delicacy  well,  and  thanked  hiui  for  it  in  my 


222 


DICKENS'    NEW    STORIES. 


heart,  but  I  know  what  my  child's  wish  was, 
BO  I  would  nut  du  wliat  he  asked  me,  bat 
promised  that  when  the  children  were  away, 
the  story  should  be  told  ;  and  then  the  game 
vrent  on. 

It  was  past  ten  o'clock  when  they  gathered 
round  me  to  hear  my  child's  history.  There 
was  no  one  there  but  the  Beresfords,  and 
the  llaughtons,  and  Nevill,  and  ourselves. 
I  saw  that  my  poor  child  was  agitated,  but 
I  would  not  have  her  either  know  that  I 
guessed  she  was  so,  or  that  I  shared  her 
agitation,  so  I  took  out  my  knitting,  and 
began  working  away  very  quietly  as  I  talkeil, 
just  glancing  up  now  and  then  into  one  or 
other  of  my  hearers'  foces — into  Nevill's 
oftenest,  because  there  was  that  in  the 
earnest  look  he  fixed  on  me  which  seemed 
to  ask  it  more  than  the  rest. 

There  was  not  really  very  much  to  tell, 
and  I  had  gone  on  without  interruption 
nearly  to  the  end,  and  was  just  telling  them 
how  I  called  her  Fortune  because  we  thought 
the  name  she  said  she  had  was  so  strange, 
when,  as  I  said  the  word  "  Willie,"  a  sudden 
cry  rang  through  the  room. 

It  fell  upon  my  heart  with  a  strange  ter- 
ror, and  in  an  instant  every  eye  was  turned 
to  whence  it  came. 

Pale  as  death,  her  figure  eagerly  bent  for- 
ward, her  hand  grasping  Fortune's  shoulder, 
Mrs.  Haughton  sat.  From  my  child's  cheek 
too  all  color  had  fled  ;  motionless,  like  two 
marble  figures,  they  fronted  one  another  ; 
their  eyes  fixed  on  each  other's  faces  with  a 
wild  hope,  a  wild  doubt  in  each  :  it  lasted 
but  a  moment,  then  both,  as  by  one  impulse, 
rose.  Mrs.  Haughton  stretched  out  her 
hands.  "  Mother  !"  burst  from  Fortune's 
lips.  There  was  a  passionate  sob,  and  they 
were  wrapped  in  one  another's  ai'ms. 

I  saw  like  one  in  a  dream — not  feeling, 
not  understanding,  not  believing.  A  giddi- 
ness came  over  me  ;  a  sudden  dimness  before 
my  eyes ;  a  feeling  of  deadly  sickness,  as  we 
feel  when  we  are  fainting.  There  began  to 
be  a  buzz  of  voices,  but  I  could  distinguish 
nothing  clearly  until  I  heard  my  own  name 
spoken. 

"  Dinah,"  my  father  was  saying  hurriedly, 
"  you  have  that  little  portrait — give  it  to 
me." 

I  roused  myself  by  a  great  effort,  and 
taking  the  locket  from  my  bosom  put  it  in 
his  hand.  Another  moment,  and  there  was 
a  second  cry  ;  but  this  time  it  was  a  cry  only 
of  joy. 

••  Yes,  yes  !"  I  heard  Mrs.  Haughton  pas- 
sionately saying,  in  a  voice  all  broken  with 
emotion,  "  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it !  It  is  my 
child — my  Willie — my  little  Willie  !"  and 
she  pressed  the  portrait  to  her  lips,  and 
looked  on  it  as  even  /had  scarcely  ever  done. 

Ah  !  I  needed  no  other  proofs.  I  needed 
nothing  more  than  that  one  look  to  tell  me 
I  had  lost  my  child. 


Mrs.  Haughton  had  sunk  upon  her  seat 
again,  and  my  darling  was  kneeling  at  her 
feet,  clasping  her  hand  and  weeping.  They 
spoke  no  more ;  they,  nor  any  one  :  then, 
when  a  minute  or  two  had  passed.  Colonel 
Haughton  raised  my  child  kindly  from  the 
ground,  and  placing  her  mother's  hand  in 
hers,  led  them  silently  together  from  the 
room. 

I  closed  my  eyes  and  turned  away,  but 
still  the  tears  would  force  their  way  through 
the  closed  lids  upon  my  cheek.  And,  as  I 
wept,  feeling — that  night  I  could  not  help 
it — so  lonely  and  so  sad,  a  warm,  firm  clasp 
came  gently  and  closed  upon  my  hand.  It 
was  Nevill,  who  was  standing  by  my  side, 
and  as  I  felt  that  friendly  pressure,  and  met 
the  look  that  was  bent  upon  me,  I  knew  that 
there  was  one  at  least  who,  rejoicing  in  my 
Fortune's  joy,  could  yet  feel  sympathy  for 
me. 

It  was  not  long  before  Colonel  Haughton 
came  back,  and  from  him  we  learnt  all  that 
there  was  to  tell.  Mrs.  Haughton,  when 
very  young,  had  married  a  Captain  Moreton 
and  accompanied  him  to  India,  where  my 
child  was  born,  and  called  after  her  mother, 
Wilhemina.  But  she  Avas  delicate,  and  the 
doctors  said  that  the  Indian  climate  would 
kill  her  ;  so  before  she  was  two  years  old, 
they  were  forced  to  send  her  home  to  Eng- 
land, to  relations  in  the  north.  An  English 
servant  was  sent  in  charge  of  her,  and  both 
were  committed  to  the  care  of  an  intimate 
friend  of  theirs  who  was  returning  to  Eng- 
land in  the  same  vessel  ;  but  the  iad}'  died 
during  the  passage,  and  of  neither  child  nor 
nurse  were  there  ever  more  any  tidinj/^s 
heard,  except  the  solitary  fact — which  the 
captain  proved — that  they  did  arrive  in 
England.  It  was  fifteen  j^ears  ago.  The 
woman  had  money  with  her  belonging  to 
Mrs.  Haughton,  as  well  as  the  whole  of  the 
child's  wardrobe ;  quite  enough  to  tempt 
her  to  dishonesty. 

And  such  was  the  history  of  my  Fortune's 
birth. 

I  went  away  as  soon  as  I  could  to  my 
room,  and  lay  there  waiting  for  my  child: 
for  I  knew  that  she  would  come.  The 
moonlight  streamed  in  brightly  and  softly, 
and  the  shadow  of  the  trees  Avithout  tlie 
window  came  and  waved  upon  my  coucli, 
rocking  gently  to  and  fro,  witii  a  low  music, 
like  a  song  of  rest.  It  stilled  my  heart, 
that  quiet  sound  ;  and  lying  there  alone,  I 
praj'ed  that  I  might  have  strength  to  rejoic'\ 
and  not  to  mourn  at  all,  and  then  after  a 
long  time  I  grew  quite  calm,  and  waited 
quietly. 

My  darling  came  at  last,  but  not  alone. 
Iler  mother  entered  the  room  with  her,  and 
they  came  together,  hand  in  hand,  up  to  my 
couch,  and  stood  beside  me,  with  the  moon- 
light falling  on  them  and  shining  on  my 
child's  white  dress,  as  if  it  was  a  robe  of 


FORTUNE  WILDRED. 


223 


Bilver.  We  spoke  little,  but  from  Mrs. 
Haughton's  lips  there  fell  a  few  most  gentle, 
earnest  loving  words,  Avhich  sank  into  my 
heart,  and  gladdened  me  ;  and  then  she  left 
me  with  my  child,  alone. 

My  darling  clung  around  my  nock  and 
wept,  and,  calmer  now  myself,  I  poured  out 
all  my  love  upon  he-r,  and  soothed  her  as  I 
could,  and  then  we  talked  together,  and  she 
told  me  all  her  joy.  And  there  were  some 
wordis  that  she  said  that  night  that  I  have 
never  since  forgotten,  nor  ever  will  forget — 
words  that  have  cheered  me  often  since — 
that  live  in  my  heart  now,  beautiful,  distinct 
and  clear  as  when  she  spoke  them  first. 
God  bless  her — my  own  child  ! 

Brightly  as  ever  the  sun  rose  upon  an 
August  morning,  did  his  first  rays  beam 
through  our  windows  to  welcome  Arthur's 
birth-day.  There  was  notliing  but  joy 
throughout  the  house,  and  happy  faces  wel- 
coming each  other,  and  gay  voices,  and 
merry  laughter  making  the  roof  ring.  There 
are  a  few  days  in  our  lives  which  stand  out 
from  all  others  we  have  ever  known  ;  days 
on  which  it  seems  to  us  as  if  the  flood  of 
sunlight  around  us  is  gilded  with  so  bright 
a  glory,  that  even  the  commonest  things  on 
which  it  falls,  glow  with  a  beauty  we  never 
felt  before  ;  days  on  which  the  fresh  breeze 
passing  over  us,  and  sweeping  through  the 
green  leaves  overhead,  whispers  ever  to  us 
to  cast  all  sorrow  from  our  hearts,  for  that 
in  the  great  world  around  us  there  is  infinite 
joy  and  hapjiiness  and  love.  Such  a  day 
was  this  ;  and  bright  and  beautiful,  with  the 
blue,  clear  sky,  v.ith  the  golden  sunbeams, 
with  the  light,  laughing  wind,  it  rises  in  my 
memory  now — a  day  never  to  be  forgotten. 

I  was  not  very  strong,  and  in  tlie  after- 
noon I  had  my  couch  moved  into  one  of  the 
quiet  rooms,  and  lay  there  resting,  with 
only  the  distant  sound  of  gay  voices  reaching 
niC  now  and  then,  and  everything  else  quite 
htill.  I  had  not  seen  much  of  my  child 
(luring  the  morning,  but  I  know  that  she 
was  happy,  so  I  was  quite  content.  And 
indeed  I  too,  myself,  was  very  happy,  for 
the  sunlight  seemed  to  have  pierced  into  my 
lieart,  and  I  felt  so  grateful,  and  so  willing 
that  all  should  be  as  it  was. 

I  had  Iain  there  alone  about  half  an  hour, 
when  I  heard  steps  upon  the  garden  walk 
without.  The  head  of  my  couch  was  turned 
from  the  window,  so  I  could  not  easily  see 
who  it  was,  but  in  a  few  moments  they 
came  near,  and  Fortune  and  Nevill  entered 
ch-o  room  by  the  low,  open  Avindow. 

"I  was  longing  to  see  my  child,"  I  said 
Boftly,  and  with  a  few  loving  words  she  bent 
her  head  down  over  me,  kissing  me  quickly 
many  times. 

Nevill  stood  by  her  side,  and  smiling, 
asked ; — 


"Will  you  not  give  mo  a  welcome  too?" 
I  said  warmly,  for  I  lun  sure  I  fult  it, 
'•  You  know  that  you  are  always  welcome.*' 
He  pressed  my  hand;  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  half  eeriously  and  half  gaily, 
he  went  on — 

"  Aunt  Dinah,  I  have  come  to  a.-<k  a  boon 
— the  greatest  boon  I  over  asked  of  any  one. 
Will  you  grant  it,  do  you  think?" 
I  looked  at  him  earnestly,  wondering, 
hoping,  doubting;  but  I  could  not  speak, 
nor  did  he  wait  long  for  an  answer  ;  but 
bending  his  head  low  : 

'•  Will  you  give  me,"  he  said — and  tin' 
exquisite  tenderness  of  his  rich  vuice  is  with 
me  still — '"will  you  give  me  your  Fortune 
to  be  ever  more  my  Fortune,  and  my  wife  ?'' 
I  glanced  from  him  to  her.  1  saw  Iiis 
beaming  smile  as  he  stood  by  her,  and  her 
glowing  cheek  and  downcast  eyes,  and  then 
1  knew  that  it  was  true,  and  tried  to  speak. 
But  they  were  broken,  weeping,  most 
imperfect  words,  saying — I  well  know  «o 
faintly  and  so  ill — the  deep  joy  that  was  in 
my  heart ;  and  yet  they  understood  nic, 
and,  whispering  "  God  Ijlcss  you  !"  Xevjll 
stooped  and  kissed  my  bruw,  and  my  darling 
pressed  me  in  lier  arms  and  gazing  in  my 
face  with  her  briglit  tearful  eyes,  1  saw  in 
their  blue  depths  a  whole  new  world  <if 
happiness. 

A  few  more  words  will  tell  you  all  the 
rest.  My  child  was  very  young,  aud  Nevill 
had  little  beside  his  feHowship  to  depend 
upon,  and  that  of  course  Iiis  nntrriage  would 
deprive  him  of.  So  it  was  settled  that  they 
should  wait  a  year  or  two  b<^fore  thoy  mar- 
ried ;  and  at  the  close  of  the  autumn  they 
parted,  Nevill — who  had  been  some  timn 
ordained — to  go  to  a  curacy  near  London, 
and  Fortune  with  her  mother,  to  relation.s 
further  north. 

It  was  to  me  a  very  sad  winter,  for  I  waw 
lonely  without  my  child,  but  I  luoknl 
forward  hopefully,  and  every  one  was 
very  kind.  And  in  the  spring  an  une.x- 
pected  happiness  befel  us,  fur  a  living  near 
us  in  ^Ir.  Beresford's  gift  hecauio  vacant 
suddenly,  and  before  it  was  quite  sumniLT 
again,  Nevill  was  established  as  the  ni-w 
rector  there.  And  then  my  darling  and  he 
were  married. 

There  is  a  little  child  with  dark-blue 
eyes  and  golden  hair,  who  often  makes  sun- 
shine in  my  room :  whose  merry  laugh'er 
thrills  my  heart,  whose  low,  sweet  songa  1 
love  to  hear,  as  nestled  by  my  side  she  »in)fs 
to  me.  Tiiey  call  her  Dinah,  and  I  knmv 
she  is  my  darling's  little  girl;  but,  when  i 
look  upon  her  face  1  can  forget  that  twenty 
years  have  passed  away,  and  still  beliov* 
she  is  my  little  Fortune,  come  back  to  be  it 
child  again. 


THE  END. 


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